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POEMS AND LYRICKS 



POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



WILLIAM B. TAPPAN 



BOSTON: ^ 
CROCKER AND RUGGLES. 

M DCCC XLH. 



TcT4 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1842, 

By Crocker and Ruggles, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of 

Massachusetts. 



CAMBRIDGE PRESS ! 
TORRY AND BALLOU. 



CONTENTS 



ToZelia, 1 

To my Boy, 6 

The Way, 8 

The Whited Sepulchre, 12 

The Warrior-Song of Prayer, 14 

Seen in the Cross, 16 

England's Cry, 18 

To the Royal Infant, 24 

Sacred Song, 29 

Stanzas. How blest the heir, 31 

The Cry, 33 

Hymn to God on Thoughts, 36 

For China, 41 

Prayer for my Son at Sea, 44 



VI CONTENTS. 

Beverly, . 50 

The Sabbath and the Sanctuary, 54 

The Seal, 60 

The Burden and the Cross, 66 

Colloquy, 72 

Zaccheus, 77 

Opium, 81 

Complaint to the Stranger, yet nigh, 87 

The Unspoken at Sea, • . 93 

New England Sabbath, 99 

The Widow's Oil, 100 

Burning of the Steamboat Lexington, .... 102 

Presbyterian, 109 

A Late Loss, Ill 

To my Country, 113 

Lydia, 116 

The late Rev. Timothy Alden, 117 

The Reformed Inebriate's Prayer, 119 

Chains, 124 

A Thought in Nonantum Vale, Brighton, . . . 126 

Verses at Machias, 128 

For America, 130 



CONTENTS. VU 

The Exile, 132 

The Child Redeemer, 136 

To Spring, 140 

Ruth's Petition, 142 

The Mother, 144 

An Olive Leaf from Gethsemane, 145 

Pity in Woman, 151 

Hymn for a Sabbath School Association, . . . 153 

Hymn for Dedication, 155 

Room in Mount Auburn, 157 

The Fourth of July, 159 

On Visiting the Scenes of Childhood, . . , . 163 

Twenty-second of February, 165 

To the Bible, 169 

The Death-bed, 173 

I Walked in Portsmouth, 179 

The Mission Ship, 182 

Song of the Delivered, 185 

To the Steamship President, 189 

Lines, on receiving from the Author a copy of 

Scenes in the Holy Land, 194 

A Psalm of Remembrance, ■ . . . 197 



Vm CONTENTS. 

William Ladd — Napoleon Bonaparte, .... 203 
Stanzas. Perhaps it is an idle thought, .... 205 

Entering in at the Celestial Gate, 210 

The Solemn Petition of John Smith, .... 213 

Dirge for Harrison, 220 

The Greatest Honor, 223 

The Scape Goat, 225 

Stanzas. 'T is strange that I should plant or build, 229 

The Elect, 232 

Enchanted Ground, 236 

Annual Concert of Prayer for the World, . . . 242 

And there was no more Sea, . 245 

Mary — Rabboni, 248 

Ministering, 250 

The Plague, 253 

Stand and See, 256 

The Pulpit Stairs of Rurutu, 259 



POEMS AND LYRICKS 



TO ZELIA. 



Daughter, daughter, see thy mother ! 

Lo, instruction 's in the sight ; 
Precept, taught thee by no other. 

Daughter, in thy mother's night, 
Look upon her ! 

For thy gladness is her light. 
1 



POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Daughter, daughter, love thy mother ! 

Well, indeed, I know that thou, 
With thy prattling, joyous brother — 

Art her chiefest comfort now. 
Stript, and lessoned. 

How the heart should, meekly, bow. 

Daughter, daughter, heed thy mother ! 

Earliest, latest, truest friend ; — 
Never canst thou know another ; 

None, beside her. Earth may lend. 
Firmer, fonder. 

Heaven to thee can never send. 

Daughter, daughter, all thy being, 

Since thy first and feeblest cry — 

She has guarded, guided, seeing 

What tliou couldst not — danger nigh ; 

Giving, with thee. 

Tear for tear, and sigh for sigh. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 

Daughter, to consult thy pleasure, 

Since her love thy cradle rocked — 

To bring forth thy mental treasure. 

Since reflection was unlocked, — 

She has freely, 

Time and care and labor mocked. 

Daughter, Recollection ponders 

O'er that night, ten years ago. 

Where beloved Ohio wanders — 

When by sickness, brought so low ; 

Wasted, weary, 

Thou, we thought, wert bid to go. 

Sleepless hours had long been given 
To thy mother's tearless eye ; 

Food refusing — morn and even. 

To repress thy painful sigh. 

Ease thy anguish, 

What did not that mother try ! 



POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Hands were there, in death, to dress thee, 
Flower, of which we were so proud ■ 

Arms extended were to bless thee, 

Lying in thy little shroud ; — 

" Stay ! " said Goodness ; — 

Then thy mother wept aloud. 

Daughter, daughter, if He pleases, 

Whose is trial, to impart 
More, and eager sickness seizes 

Her, who holds thee in her heart, 
Think, what debtor 

To such watchful care thou art ! 

Think, an orphan ! — should the number 
Of her troublous years be run, 

And thy mother take her slumber — 
All her patient sorrows done; 

Could remembrance 

Her yet wakeful presence shun I 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. { 

O, while thou wert heedless playing, 

Or care wooing, as thou must — 

Memory's footsteps would be straying, 
Frequent pilgrim to her dust. 

Will Remembrance 

Make the pathway thither, curst, 

When some thought of the departed 

Chills thy soul and pales thy bloom, 

With the truth, that, broken hearted. 

She, thy mother ! sought the tomb ? 

Hide her, rather ! 

Hide that child, profoundest Gloom ! 

Daughter, daughter, NO ! I never 

Shall such fear indulge for thee, 

While 't is thy sincere endeavor. 

Youthful sins and snares to flee. 

While to Mercy, 

She and I may bend the knee ! 



POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



TO MY BOY. 

I HAILED thy launching forth to life, 
And gazed on thee with busy joy ; 

Nor recked I of the frequent strife, 
Thou'dst meet upon that sea, my boy ! 

Slender vessel on the deep, 

Where the angry tempests sweep. 

I lingered at thy pouting mouth. 
How often ! for the parent's bliss ; 

And cared not for the fragrant South, 
When taking thence the balmy kiss ; — 

Talk of pleasure ? boasting earth 

Yields none of a purer birth. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 7 

I watched thy growth^ and sometimes fears, 
And sometimes precious hopes I had : 

These last prevailed, as, swiftly, years 
Revealed to me the comely lad. 

Health and beauty on that brow — 

Pride ! with me thou 'rt busy now. 

Yet I confess those raptures fade, 

Their very recollections die. 
Compared with bliss that 's on me laid, 

That crowns my cup to-day, as I 
See thee thus in early bloom, 
Vows, that bind to God, assume. 

Of wealth of joy there 's something more 
Than Childhood's graces can impart ; 

Yet not from earth is delved the store 
With which heaven fills the parent's heart, 

When, subdued by love, his son 

Is to meek Religion won. 



POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



THE WAY. 

How sweet, beneath the Cross, 
At once, subdued, to lie ; — 

Soon as I feel my loss. 

To find my gain is nigh ; — 

Without the prelude of alarms, 

To fall into my Saviour's arms. 

How blest, impelled by gales 
Of love, the port to win ; — 

Never to furl the sails. 
Till safely moored within. 

To anchor in the sheltered bay, 

Without one tempest by the way. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 9 

A few reach Canaan's land, 

Nor meet a single blast ; 
They sing with victory's band, 

But not of perils past. 
No lions on their pathway wait, 
No " slough," hard by the " wicket gate." 

O such was not my course, 

When groping for the light ; 
Waves moaned and winds were hoarse. 

And bitter was the night. 
Across a gulph my vessel flew, 
To halcyon hope I bade adieu. 

Storms rose and swept my deck, 

The flying sails were rent ; 
And I, a helpless wreck, 

O'er dreadful seas was sent ; 
A feather by the tempest tost, — 
O, no ! — a spirit, well nigh lost. 



10 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

To storms, the deadly calm 

Succeeded, but a curse 
Still hung ; — such idle charm, 

Than hurricane, were worse. 
Storm, calm, fierce wind, smooth sea, 
Each, in its turn, was sent to me. 

Sometimes, escaped to shore, 

I trod the vale of death ; 
Now, chilled and frozen o'er, — 

Now, by the Simoom's breath, 
Stifled ; till on the sands I sank, 
And at the cheating mirage drank. 

At times, I deemed my skill 
Could guide me safely through ; 

I tasked affection, will. 

And understanding too ; — 

Yet found, amid the journey rough, 

That all my skill was not enough. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. H 

I plucked a way-side staff, — 

'T was but a broken reed ; 
I rallied song and laugh, — 

They failed me at my need. 
Ambition, Pleasure, Riches, Care ; — 
They all resigned me to Despair. 

Till, to my utmost need. 

The Heavenly Leader came ; 
I knew Him — for my deed 

Had put him, once, to shame. 
What said He ? — to my passions, " Cease !" 
And straight my troubled soul had peace. 

Methinks, my final song. 

Final, yet ending never, — 
Will cheerful praise prolong, 

To my dear Lord forever, — 
Who, when I such hard passage trod, 
My feet with full deliverance shod. 



12 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



THE WHITED SEPULCHRE. 

Ye may set round this stately tomb, 
The pots, heaped up with Flora's bloom ; 
And bid white violets ope their leaf, 
And cypress stand in silent grief; — 

Ye may surround this hallowed place, 
With all that Art contrives of grace ; — 
The tesselated pavement, walk. 
Pebbled or turfed, where Mind may talk ; - 

And make this spot of quiet rest. 
Outwardly seem an Eden, blest, — 
A garden, to the senses fair. 
Wooing us to inhabit there ; — 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 1^ 

And yet, when all is done, unlock 
The iron door! — sight, smell, a shock 
Receive, appalling; — loathing, sick, 
The dead forsake we for the quick. 

Such is the heart, not cleansed by grace. 
Such is that foul, unseemly place ; 
Rich, outwardly, in beauty's bloom, 
Within, offensive as the tomb. 

And Holiness, that can endure, 

Only the fragrant and the pure, 

Flies from the path by vileness trod ; — 

O, Dead in sin ! canst thou "see God?" 



14 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



THE WARRIOR-SONG OF PRAYER. 

Come Warriors ! to the earnest fray ; 
Enlisted ye for life, 
Ye must be up for Christ, to-day ; 
All eager for the strife. 

Your swords all keen, your swords all bright, 
Your breast-plates girded on — 
Gather ye to the glorious fight ; 
A Kingdom must be won. 

Come on, as mail-clad veterans do, 
And let the work be warm ; 
Your weapons are not frail nor few, — 
Take heaven itself by storm. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 15 

No fear! — ivho fears? — God's tallest towers, 
'T is yours, in faith, to scale ; 
And He, himself, will nerve your powers 
Against them to prevail. 

In His Name venture rock and crag ; 
The coward only falls ; — 
Come on ! He 's honored when your flag 
Is planted on his walls. 

Yea, to the shout of victor-cheer. 
Which, conquerors, ye shall bring — 
God will bestow approving ear, 
And vanquished Heaven will sing ! 



16 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



SEEN IN THE CROSS. 

I HEAR of hell, and fear its flames; 
I cannot but believe 
Its terrors are lit up for him, 
Who will not truth receive. 

But in the Cross I plainly see 
More of God's holy ire, 
And love of law, than ever blazed 
In hell's devouring fire. 

That monument of dying love, 
If scorned, must surely be 
A beacon of tormenting wrath, 
Burning eternally. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 17 

God's law is pure ; — I see 't is pure 
In Sinai's dreadful light ; 
I hear it in the voice which shakes 
That mountain with affright. 

Yet in my Lord, I hear, and see 
Its excellence divine, — 
Clearer than in that thunder's voice, 
Or in that lightning's shine. 

Hearing, and seeing thus, may I 
Escape the doom at hand. 
For him who knows and disobeys, — 
Whose house is on the sand. 



18 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



Bre. 



ENGLAND'S CRY. \ 

SAD or Blood," is the awful inscription upon j 
some of the banners paraded in the provincial towns 
of England. 

The voice that shakes Old England thus 

Comes not, as came the thunder-cheer 

From Trafalgar and Waterloo, 

Upon a nation's greedy ear. 

No Nelson now, nor Wellington, 

Nor any other demi-god 

Inspires the dreadful cry. 

Troubling the just sky — 

Of '' Bread or Blood." 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 19 

'T is not a nation's ringing shout, 

When banners fly from tower and dome, 

And million hearts, as one, are out 

To welcome heroes home. 

Yet here are shouts ! — they 're not thine own, 

O lawful victory's God ! 

Yet here are banners ! and the throne 

Trembles at " Bread or Blood ! " 



At " Bread or Blood ! " — in sullen wail 
It comes from home and naked hearth ; 
From mother o'er her babe, whose lip 
Is parched with curses for its birth. 
From perishing, abandoned men 
Borne on to death by penury's flood — 
And England's cheer gives place to yells, 
Whose agony's akin to hell's — 
Of '' Bread or Blood " 



20 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

On ! on ! in long procession comes 
The injured, downtrod, desperate group; 
Who wonders, that Destruction rides- — 
The dreadful leader of the troop ? 
'T is life or death ! and yet no horde 
Of plundering Pict, or brawling Dane, 
Are these — worse ! worse ! stern English hearts, 
That ask, and will not ask in vain, 
When for their households clamoring food, 
Withheld by tyrants ; — on they come. 
For '' Bread or Blood ! " 

From Land's End to the swollen mart, 
Throned London — whose far influence goes, 
Like pulses of a mighty heart. 
Where'er the tide of being flows. 
They hear it ! those false feudal lords, 
The titled traitors of Saint James — 
They hear it ! those luxurious dames, 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 21 

And paleness gathers o'er their cheeks, 
Who long have Misery's call withstood, 
A People, trampled, 7'isen, speaks 
In " Bread or Blood." 

She hears it ! feeblest of vain things, 
A simple girl in other sphere — 
But doomed to don the crown of kings ! 
Away, away, what doth such here ? 
He hears it ! penniless boy-prince — 
Who cares not, though an empire bleeds, 
And millions perish, if they gorge 
Caligula's imperial steeds.* 
He hears it, who the hearts of men 
Holds in his hands, yon blessing God ! 
Not the heart's answering, free " Amen,'\ 
But '' Bread or Blood ! " 

* This imported Prince has squandered £ 70,000 
sterHng on his stables, while countless thousands of his 
wife's subjects are without bread. 



22^ POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

We hear it ! our Atlantic's roar 
Sinks down beneath its knelling call ; 
And who but weeps that Death should fling 
O'er a whole realm his funeral pall 1 
And who but wonders that the axe 
Should decimate three kingdoms so, 
And men should freely give their blood 
When bloated courtiers bid it flow 1 
Who wonders that the cry is up 
From wretches for their stolen food? 
'T is time, when filled is horror's cup, 
For " Bread or Blood ! " 

We hear ! who blushed to think our veins, 
Nourished by Freedom's generous tide — 
Were filled at founts so dyed in shame. 
So cold to Manhood, Virtue, Pride. 
O is it true, ye fields of yore ? 
Say, Cressy, Blenheim, Agincourt I 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 23 

Say, Sovereign God ! 
Did these degraded, patient men 
Spring from the glorious Saxon too ? 
These millions, cowering to a few, — 
Submitting to a gilded chain — 
Lost, deadf to all that 's true ? 
Ha ! even so ! they live again ! 
They 'd reached extreme of ruin, when 
Forbearance was a word shut out ; 
There 's meaning in that dreadful shout, 
The race is heard in that one cry ; 
Doom or Deliverance is nigh 

In " Bread or Blood I " 



24 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



TO THE ROYAL INFANT* 

Welcome ! welcome ! little creature, 

Born at sad Starvation's cost, 
Nursed by Anguish ; — in each feature, 

Read we blood of despots crossed. 
Welcome ! though imperfect numbers 

Blend with laureat's at thy shrine, 
Power, not will, to laud thee, slumbers, 

Lying lyricks are not mine. 

* The birth of a Prince has caused congratulations 
to pour into Buckingham Palace from every quarter, 
from one class of her Majesty's devoted subjects; and 
the same mail that brings them to the metropohs 
brings accounts of the deep misery of another class, 
who weep and sigh and die ! — Letters of a Traveller y 
December, 1841. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 25 

Welcome ! welcome ! royal stranger, 

To a suftering, sinking land, 
Famine greets thee : frowning Danger 

Proffers thee its giant hand. 
Welcome ! in this day of trouble, 

Welcome ! in these judgment times, 
When to England shall be double 

Rendered, for her monstrous crimes. 



Bowed are sycophants around thee. 

Cringing to thee are the great ; — 
Victim ! they have only bound thee, 

Firmer, faster, to thy fate. 
True, of gold and gems each fetter 

Curiously inwrought may be — 
Maketh this thy bondage better ? 

Pleasanter thy cell to thee 1 



2S POEMS AND LYUICKS, 

Not in purlieu of thy palace 

English feelings truly dwell, — 
Seek thy million poor whom malice 

Crushes, they the truth will tell ! 
Hear'st thou not tumultuous shouting ? 

'T is the cry of blood from earth ; 
Mind is Royal bondage scouting, 

Groans and griefs salute thy birth. 



Hoary heads on dung-hills lying, 

Fathers famishing for bread, 
Mourning mothers, children dying. 

Every household with its dead ; 
Bosoms with rebellion burning, 

Passions kindled to a flame, 
Thousands, her who bore them spurning, 

Leaving England to her shame ; — 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 27 

This, the bouquet that is blooming — 

Given freely for thine own : 
Ready, when thou art assuming 

Empire, to adorn thy throne ; 
And thy mother ! though to send her 

Gratulations, cities vote, — 
All a ruined realm can render 

Is Despair's unending note. 



Yes ! though guns and drums proclaim it, 

Banners flaunt from tree and tower, 
Bells, in silvery sweetness name it 

England's haughtiest, happiest hour, 
Sterner voice than drum hath spoken ; 

Deeper tones sweep by than bells ; 
Aye, a nation, bleeding, broken, 

England's real homage tells. 



28 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Star of Brunswick ! though thy merit 

May be such as suits thy birth, 
Equalling all princely spirit 

Which has ever curst the earth, — 
Worshipped too by peer and poet. 

Hailed by fond and flattering slaves, — 
Yet thy beams — and time will show it — 

Only shine on British graves I * 
1842. 

* It is computed that 20,000 individuals annually 
perish in England, through the operation, alone, of 
the iniquitous Corn Laws. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 29 



SACRED SONG. 

How shall I cherish the desire 
That often kindles in my breast, 

distant God ! to draw yet nigher 
Thy seat of holiness and rest 1 

1 long to loose the hold that clings 

To earth, the chain that binds to sin ; 
When will my spirit plume her wings, 
Soar to thy love, and enter in ? 

When will she cease to follow night's 
Meteor that only burns to die — 

And turn to the immortal lights 
That beckon from t)ie upper sky ? 



30 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

When will she cease to quench her thirst 
In streams that mock her with their shine ; 

And drink of cool, sweet wells that burst, 
Sparkling and true, from founts divine? 

When cease, a prodigal, to feed 

On husks that far from home are found ; 

And gather, for her daily need, 

Manna, which whitens all the ground ? 

I loathe this fond, uncertain grief; 

Abhor these evanescent tears ; 
This faith, which is not firm belief ; 

These weary doubts, these fitful fears. 

I hate this changeful flight of prayer ; 

Now on the mount, and now below ; 
Now building tabernacles there ; 

Now grovelling here, in listless wo. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 31 

Consistent, fixed, unwavering, true — 

I long, I pant, I cry to be ; 
Creator ! thine own work renew. 

And bid it to resemble Thee. 



STANZAS. 

How blessed the heir, unvexed by trouble, 
Heav'n's legacy who hath not spent; — 
Who, counting earth a passing bubble, 
Above its pomp secures content. 

Thirsts he along Life's weary journey ? 
Its wayside fountains fill his cup ; 
Called out with bucklered Care to tourney?' 
He meets the brunt with visor up. 



32 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

With passions, in Life's earnest races, 
Contends he ? and that prize the soul ? 
He presses on, unheeding traces 
Of footsteps past, and wins the goal. 

Hearts-ease, his flower, he ever weareth ; 
Subdued and simple is his will ; 
And while of peace the Proud despaireth, 
His, like a river, floweth still. 

Mortal — to day he meeteth sorrow. 
Such as the thoughtless never scanned ; 
Yet, darkness past, what light, tomorrow,, 
Breaks on him from the Spirit-Land ! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 33 



THE CRY. 

WouLDST thou be cleansed from every taint 
Of grievous and defiling sin ? 
And is it truly thy complaint 
That vileness lurks within ? 

And do thy heart-strings wail thy wo ? 
And pants thy spirit to be free ? 
And do outbreathings hourly go 
For perfect purity ? 

Alone, alone, and passion-tost ; — 
Though rescued from destruction's brink, 
Still on the seas where souls are lost, 
And fearing thou shalt sink. 
3 



34 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Spake unto thee, the Voice that charmed 
Judea's waters once to rest — 
And is not all the tempest calmed 
To silence in thy breast 1 

Hear ! for 't is easy to the heart, 
That meekly sits, of Christ to learn ; — 
Words, that to darkness light impart, 
In such shall clearly burn. 

Below thy raging sins sink down, 
Nor heed their stormy strife above ; 
Thou shalt not meet a Saviour's frown 
Within his arms of love. 

Down, down in dust ! — the only place 
For lips that press despair's full cup ; — 
Thence the strong arm of Sovereign Grace 
Shall quickly raise thee up. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 35 

Humility, at Jesus' feet, 
In wondrous beauty stands confest ; — 
Take by thy Lord the lowest seat, 
A weeping, welcome guest. 

^T was on the mount the pilgrim* grew 
A boastful man, and proud and vain, — 
But in the vale he had Sin's view, 
And was a child again. 

Trust Him who saves, to cleanse thy soul ; 
To limit boundless Love, beware ! 
Grace, that begins, completes the whole ; 
To prove it, be thy care. 

*' For holiness ! " goes up thy cry 1 
'T was mine, is mine, and still shall be ; — 
Yet, when I 'm humble, Christ is nigh, 
And blessed purity. 

* Pilgrim's Progress. 



36 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



HYMN TO GOD ON THOUGHTS. 

It may be, from outbreaking sin 

Thy mercy hath me kept ; 
I fear me lest o'er faults, within, 

My spirit long hath slept. 
Faults known to Thee — forgot by me ; 

All unconfessed, unwept. 



How far I am from outward act 

Of grievous error free, 
Unstained by damning vice, — the fact 

My fellow men may see ; 
Not these, not these ; ^- what I deplore 

Is scanned alone by Thee. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 37 

And these ! — not all their wild extent 

Can I of surety know ; 
How with my beating heart are blent 

The pulses of the foe, 
Who courses in my purple flood, 

And taints it in its flow. 

Could I escape Thought's dreadful power, 

Nor creep to death its slave, 
I 'd purchase one such angel-hour 

With life, and hail the grave : 
Or, doomed to longer pilgrimage, 

Life's pilgrim woes would brave. 

Could in these bitter waters be 

Some branch of healing cast, 
I 'd murmur not, though yet by me 

A desert 's to be past, 
Of care and toil — not dreary sin — 

To Canaan's land at last. 



38 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

*T is not of sickness I complain, 
Though this hath made me moan ; 

Bereavement wakes no angry strain, 
Though this, O God, I 've known ! 

I 'd bear these chiders, as I 've borne, 
For these are all thine own. 

'T is not that thou hast scourged away 
My early, pleasant schemes, 

And on my plans of riper day 
Hast written " empty dreams ; " 

And taught me earth's enchantment is 
Far, far from what it seems. 

'T is not that to hope's flower of pride, 
Which grew within my door, 

A worm was sent ; the floweret died — 
And joyful hope is o'er. — 

He, whom I love, is shipwrecked, tossed 
On seas without a shore. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 39 

'T is not that, daily, I may see 

How silent grief drinks up 
Her life, who is my life to me, 

Who took with me that cup. 
And drained it to its dregs of pain : 

O, few such horrors sup ! 

I, foolish wanderer, truly know 

That these are well for me ; 
These are but blessed guides to show 

The path that leads to Thee — 
Yea, in my greatest grief I count 

My greatest joy to see. 

But 't is vain Thoughts that me perplex ; 

And sinful Thoughts, that rise 
Like clouds of troops, all armed, to vex 

My journey to the skies. 
O, how they muster, when my soul 

On heaven would fix her eyes ! 



40 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

And when I come to Thee in prayer, 
Hell knows the favored hour ; 

Lo, all its legion Thoughts are there, 
Impatient to devour ! 

Yea, weeping at my Saviour's Cross, 
I feel their cruel power. 

My God ! I cry to Thee in pain ; 

Thou art my hope at last ; 
Free me from the accursed chain. 

So strongly round me cast, — 
And I '11 Thee praise along my way, 

And when my journey 's past. 

Yet, "if to suit some wise design," 

I must be longer tried ; 
And this stern trouble must be mine. 

Perhaps to humble pride — 
Help ! Thou, who, in Gethsemane, 

Temptation, sore, defied. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 41 



FOR CHINA.* 

O God, on China look ! 

And wall her realm about ; 
Nor from the nations' varied book, 

Let her be blotted out. 

* An eminent statesman has lately told us, that the 
Opium question has nothing to do with the present 
outrageous attack of the English on China. I am yet 
inclined to the belief, that had the Chinese continued 
meekly to receive the drug, the war, notwithstanding 
other provocations, would have been postponed, if, 
indeed, it had occurred at all. Immense quantities of 
Opium are cultivated in India, under the immediate 
direction of the East India Company — and China 
presents the only market for this deleterious article! 
This is the key to the conduct of the English in rela- 
tion to the Chinese. 



42 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Oppose the western power, 
To which the empire 's sold ; 

Whose Lion rages to devour, 
Whose lust is still for gold. 

And if the enslaving drug. 

Barbaric heathen hate. 
While Christians yet the fetter hug, 

That binds them to their fate ; 

And Christian fleets and men 
Cloud that defenceless coast ; — 

O God of battle ! thunder then 
Upon the daring host. 

And bow Britannia's heart, 

In this unholy war ; 
And stain her flag, and bid depart 

The glories of her star. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 43 

Teach her, " whose flag is furled 

Never," on land or sea, 
" Whose morning drum beats round the 
world " — 
A Greater rules than she ! 

Then, bring the Pagan down. 
Where all the world must meet ; 

The monarch, humbled at thy crown, — 
The people at thy feet. 



44 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



PRAYER FOR MY SON AT SEA. 

My prayer goes up this Sabbath morn ; — 
I cannot choose, this morn, but pray 

For him, my son, my eldest born, 
Now on some ocean, far away — 

That Thou, whose presence still is found 
Where Day's swift pinions farthest go, 

Wilt with tl^at presence him surround — 
An iEgis, fronting every foe. 

O sacred season ! blessed time ! 

To home and household memories given, 
When Sabbath calm and Sabbath chime 

So sweetly urge our flight to heaven. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 45 

I see its glorious sunshine rest 

On field and flower, on spire and tree ; 

And thoughts, like birds, forsake their nest, 
And soar and fly, my God, to Thee. 

I hear the first wild hymn that swells 
From yonder quiring temple-grove ; 

I hear discourse those village bells 
Of nobler courts and hymns above. 

To-day, what thousands from their homes, 
In villages and towns, will pour 

To throng the heaven-directed domes, 
Thee, gracious Father, to adore ! 

Those at my home, my girl and boy. 
Arrayed by their fond mother's care — 

With willing steps and chastened joy, 
Will duly to thy house repair. 



46 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

But one — whose little hand in mine 
Enclasped — whom I to worship led, 

Who early loved the Voice divine, 
Whose early tear for sin was shed — 

Whose smile beguiled me oft of cares, 
Whose words, 't was music's self to hear, 

Round whom were reared faith's earnest 
prayers. 
For whom was dropt hope's frequent tear ; 

Whose manly gait 't was joy to see ; 

Whose open brow was honor's throne ; 
Whose morn gave promise unto me 

Of brilliant day — my child, my own, 

Is with the sailor, on the deep. 

Where bright and joyous hope is dim. 

I think upon my boy and weep ; 
I cannot choose but weep for him, 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 47 

Whose lot it is, afar to roam ; 

No gentle tones to greet his ear ; 
Shut out from all the peace of home ; 

No parent, with instruction, near — 

To shield him from the dreadful sins 
That cluster round the sailor's way ; 

Exposed to one that woos and wins 
The thoughtless, for a certain prey ; — 

Exposed to bitter fears, lest he. 

Our careless, generous, absent one, 

May be forgotten ! — How could we 
Forget him — our beloved Son? — 

Perhaps thick dangers wrap his form ; 

Now yawns the deep beneath his feet ; 
Around him howls the tropic storm ! 

The waters weave his winding sheet. 



48 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Dark thought flies back ; dark thought flies far, 
To home, to Sabbath, and to me ; 

O God ! light up for him the star 
That leads the wanderer unto Thee. 

And hear a father's broken prayer ; 

And keep him from a sudden grave ; 
Yet rather make his soul thy care ; — 

From passion's storm my sailor save. 

And where the silent quicksands lie, 
Or murmuring breakers tell of doom, 

And trooping o'er the angry sky 

Are clouds, that deepen midnight's gloom — 

There ! where strange terrors dimly frown, 
And fright his inexperienced youth, -^ 

About his feet flash freely down 
The splendors of unerring Truth. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 49 

And guard him from the hopeless wreck, 
Which Mind so often makes of Mind. 

In silent watches on the deck, 
Or to his sleepless berth confined, 

May his reflections be of God, 

And prayer be on his heart and lip, 

That He, who once the billows trod, 
Who taught the people from the ship, — 

May walk the waves of his distress, 
And reach to him his helping aid, 

And with compassion's teaching bless — 
"'TisI! 'tis I! — be not afraid!" 

Then to what winds his topsails swell, 

Then through what seas his keel may drive, 

Chainer of Waves when they rebel ! 
Soother ! when tempests are alive, — 



4 



50 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

My Boy, preserved, all peril past, — 
Kept by thine ever watchful love, 

And safe from storms and seas at last, 
Shall anchor in the port above. 

Sunday Morning, 
July 4, 1841. 



BEVERLY. 

" They are all gone into a world of light, 
And I alone sit lingering here." 

Henry Vaughan, — 1614. 

YoN starry world hath them received. 

All through their Saviour's grace ; 

And I, by hope once more deceived. 
Seek thee, my native place. 

Why seek 1 — Of their dim footsteps here 
Mine eye discerns no trace. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 51 

One twelvemonth of my early span, 
They say, I measured here ; 

Unknowing of the hopes of man, 
Unknowing of his fear ; 

Too young to feel prospective pain, 
Or care, forever near. 

Too young to know the tender bliss, 
That's laid about his Vv^ay, 

Who goes to slumber with a kiss, 

From slumber wakes to play ; 

His mother's treasure all the night. 
Her treasure all the day. 

I would that years could give me back 

That cynosure of joy, 
By which alone I 'd steer my track. 

Forever but a boy ; 
My tiny ocean always calm. 

My boat, a tireless toy. 



52 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

I would years subsequent I'd given 
To thee, my native place ; 

Here lived for earth, here lived for heaven ; 
Like those, who, by his grace. 

Their Maker served in this sweet spot, 
And now behold His face. 

I would, in Memory's blotted book, 

A leaf I had of thee, 
Which I might sometimes turn, and look 

At careless Infancy, 
As others do, as others will. 

But which is not for me. 

No! — tost on a continual wave 

Am I of sorrow's strife, 
That only doth disclose a grave, 

With dole and darkness rife. 
He anguish knows, whose barque is beat 

By every sea of life. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 53 

My native place ! — how falls the word 
In sweetness on the heart ! 

A tear ? — away ! — it were absurd 
For idle tears to start ; 

Or bitter thoughts to come, where I 
Have neither lot nor part. 



54 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



THE SABBATH AND THE SANC- 
TUARY. 

Right glad was I, when round me 

I heard sweet voices say, 
" Come ! worship ! " — for they found me 

All ready for the Day ; 
The Day of truer pleasure, 

Than thousands spent in sin ; 
The Day of richer treasure. 

Than worlds of wealth could win. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 55 

Right glad was I, when stealing 

O'er wooded hill and glen, 
Came call of bells, revealing 

Repose for weary men ; 
Their joyful music telling, 

In soothing Sabbath talk. 
That Mind, Earth's care dispelling, 

With Heaven, to-day, may walk. 



In haste, thine house I entered, 

Its beauty whispered, *' Come ! " 
I lowly knelt, where centred 

Of all my hopes the sum. 
Cool, clear, and living waters 

In streams came flowing by ; 
Bread for earth's sons and daughters 

Was there in full supply. 



56 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

More happy in a corner 

Of these thy courts to be, 
Than yonder sceptred scorner, 

Who claims the servile knee ; 
To keep thy door, I 'd rather, — 

Thy child would love it well, - 
Than in the tents, my Father ! 

Of wickedness to dwell. 



To my fond heart how proudly 

Goes up that noble song, 
When David's anthem loudly 

Repeat the earnest throng ! 
When notes of solemn sadness 

Confessions make to heaven ; 
When chords are swept to gladness, 

And public praise is given. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 57 

Those truths — my heart believes them, 

As coming from my God ; 
Those truths — my heart receives them, 

As sealed with Jesus' blood ; 
Now, the transporting tidings. 

My soul leaps up to hear ; 
Now, salutary chidings 

Impart becoming fear. 



I love the Day, if o'er me 

The sky in tempest lowers ; 
My God is light before me. 

And cloudless are my hours ; 
I love it, if in splendor 

The azure arch is drest ; 
My God, what shall I render 

For this bright Day of rest ! 



58 POEMS ANL> LYEICKS, 

I love the Day, assisted 

By health to spend it well ; 
Besetting sin resisted, 

And weakened folly's spell ; 
That strength and vigor gladly 

I consecrate to God, 
And mourn young Health so sadly 

In thoughtless ways has trod. 



And if pale Sickness seizes 

This frame, I love the Day ; 
Thy messengers. Diseases, 

Will not forbid to pray. 
My chamber is an altar, 

My heart to sing is free ; 
Its praises, though they falter, 

Are heard, my God, by Thee. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 59 

I '11 love the Day when dying ; 

How blest the Sabbath time, 
In death's embraces lying, 

To hear the Sabbath chime ! 
On Him, who death is routing, 

In quivering prayer to call. 
To Him, who's Victor, shouting, 

And in his arms to fall ! 



O tell me not that Zion, 

All pearls and gems, sits queen ; 
That splendor 's where the Lion 

Of Judah's tribe is seen ; 
But tell me yon broad heaven 

A Temple is to view ; 
Its Day, one Sabbath given, — 

And I will worship too ! 



60 rOEMS AND LYKICKS, 



THE SEAL.* 

Fair as the moon ! " celestial seal, 

O for thy mark of blessing ! 
Meek ornament — I pant to feel 

The sign my brow impressing. 
To cleanse sin's spot, and make me fair, 
Beyond what beauteous angels are, 

Is thy strange power, Religion ! 



* " When they were returned out of the garden from 
the Bath, the interpreter took them, and looked upon 
them, and said unto them, ' Fair as the moon ! ' Then 
he called for the seal, wherewith they used to be 
sealed that were washed in his Bath. So the seal was 
brought, and he set his mark upon them, that they 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 61 

" Fair as the moon ! " — wo 's me ! unclean ! 

Where folly in commotion 
Upcasts its mire, I long have been 

Disporting in the ocean. 
To thy dear Bath, my Lord, I flee ; 
So ! bring the seal — affix on me, 

Eternally, Religion ! 

Now will I tell what wondrous charm 

Hath mercy's crystal waters. 
To cleanse the soul, the passions calm 

Of misery's sons and daughters. 



might be known in the place, whither they were yet 
to go ; and the mark was set between their eyes. 
This seal greatly added to their beauty, for it was an 
ornament to their faces. It also added to their gravity, 
and made their countenances more like those of an- 
gels." — The FilgriTti's Progress. 



62 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Now will I sing the blessed seal, 
Whose outward impress doth reveal, 
Throned in the heart, Religion ! 

"Fair as the moon ! " ingenuous youth ! 
Who long'st to lift the curtain, 
And gaze beyond, and know, for truth, 

What now is hope uncertain, — 
Wouldst thou, by prescience, ills forego? 
V/ear thou her seal and thou shalt know 
His state, who finds Religion ! 

Though simple, unsuspecting thou, 
Yet constant perils find thee ; 

Yea, though a willing victim now, 
Sin's dreadful fetters bind thee ; 

Thou hast no fear, thou know'st no pain, 

Nor seest thy cell, nor feel'st thy chain — 
Blind, lost, without Religion ! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 63 

Fair as the moon ! " — along this dark 

Wild road, by perils driven, — 
O fragile woman ! wear the mark, 

That pitying Love hath given. 
On dangerous land, on stormy sea, 
A certain panoply will be 

The talisman. Religion ! 

How blest to-day avails thee not ; 

How free life's book from sorrow — 
The smile 's there now — a tear will blot 

That various leaf to-morrow ! 
Let light shine down upon the page 
Of youth, maturity, and age — 

The only light. Religion ! 

'T is all thou need'st, thou village maid ! 

To make thy beauty glorious ; 
Though in unequalled charms arrayed. 

And o'er all hearts victorious — 



64 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

One thing thou lacJcest — part with gold, 
Yea, all, to buy, what can't be sold 
For worldly dross. Religion ! 

Thou city's pride! — the speaking face, 
Where mind informs each feature ; 

The faultless form, and matchless grace. 
Which make the perfect creature — 

These, that thou thus rejoicest in, 

Win earth ; but heaven they cannot win ; 
Nought doth it, but Religion ! 

'T is all thou need'st to make short life 
A day of white-winged hours ; 

From all its care-paths weeding strife. 
The thorn from all its flowers. 

'T will soothe away thy latest sigh, 

'T will cheer thee when thou art to die; 
Nought doth it but Religion ! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 65 

Yea, when before Him thou 'It appear, 

Whose ways are everlasting, 
Thy gentle spirit need not fear. 

But, crowns and praises casting 
Before His feet, thou shalt rejoice, 
And with the ransomed lift thy voice — 

Who wear the seal, Religion ! 



66 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



THE BURDEN AND THE CROSS.* 

We bear along our toilsome way 

A burden, taken at the birth ; 
How deeply, sadly, none may say. 

It bows the wearer down to earth ! 
'T is written, like the prophet's scroll. 

All sighs without, all woes within ; 
It lays upon the fainting soul 

The grievous malison of sin. 



* " Now I saw in my dream, that the highway which 
Christian was to go was fenced on either side with a 
wall, and that wall was called Salvation ', Is, xxvi. 1. 
Up this way, therefore, did burdened Christian run, 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 67 

Go where we may, it goes with us ; 

At home, abroad, or well, or ill ; 
In mirth, in joy, the constant curse 

Is woven with existence still. 
It shames us in the open mart ; 

It dyes our cheek in secret hour ; 
It sits, a vulture, on the heart. 

And tortures with unsparing power. 



but not without great difficulty, because of the load on 
his back. He ran thus till he came at a place some- 
what ascending; and upon that place stood a Cross, 
and a little below, in the bottom, a sepulchre. So I 
saw in my dream, that just as Christian came up with 
the Cross, his Burden loosed from off his shoulders, 
and fell from off his back, and began to tumble, and so 
continued to do, till it came to the mouth of the sep- 
ulchre, where it fell in, and I saw it no more." — Pil- 
grim's Progress. 



68 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

There is no peace around the board, 

Though heaped with meats and crowned 
with wine ; 
There is no peace, where heaven hath stored 

For man domestic bliss divine. 
There is no peace in balmy sleep ; 

No angel there, to bid it seem 
Like Eden, where immortals keep 

Watch o'er the lips of those that dream. 



To madness urged, we leave our home, 

God knows with what disturbed intent. 
To crush reflection as we roam, — 

To wander, till his grace is spent ! 
Yet vain to us the painted fields, 

Or valleys smiling with the sheaf; 
The roadside flower no sweetness yields 

To journeyers in guilt and grief. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 69 

Across the desert lies the way 

To that high place of fearful name ; 
We choose it, and regardless stray 

To Sinai's awful mount of flame. 
The tenfold trumpet, waxing loud 

And louder, warns the sinner thence ; 
How may he shun — the lost, the proud — 

The Law that slays for one offence ! 



Shall we, with Christian, take the path, 

Which points, as worldlings deem, to loss, 
But, leading from impending wrath, 

That brings the Pilgrim to the Cross ? 
O, we may travel folly's road, 

Bowed with our burden to despair ; 
Yet, never, never drop the load, 

Till, taught by grace, we leave it there ! 



70 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

How many painful steps he took ! 

What heavy groanings rent his breast ! 
Till casting on that sight a look, 

At once he found relief and rest. 
And thus 't is ever with the heart 

That turns aside to solace, vain ; 
It cannot with its anguish part ; 

The guilt and burden must remain. 



O God ! when finding out the cheat 

Of this delusive world below. 
We turn away our weary feet. 

And to the Cross with weeping go, 
How blest to feel, while gazing, all 

That weighed our spirit down before. 
Loosed by thy love, forever fall 

Where Mercy ne'er shall see it more 5 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 71 

And such was I, and such am I ; 

Once sorely burdened, now released ,- 
Who could not from his anguish fly, 

Whose efforts but the load increased ; 
Till taught by Him to lay it down, 

To Him thought, love, and will resign — 
I choose my Lord should wear the crown ; 

What is my will? — O Christ, 'tis thine ! 



72 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



COLLOaUY. 



HIGH PRIEST 



Thou, who look'st to CaBsar's seat, 
Claiming to be called a King — 
Yet for purple, sceptre, ring, 
Showest coarsest covering, 
Crownless head and naked feet ; 
Wanderer ! for sedition ripe ; 
Poverty's true prototype ; 
Monarch ! with no lictors, guards ; 
Lauded not by courtly bards ; 
With no symbol, save a scrip ; 
With no herald, save the lip 
Of these stricken Fishermen; 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 73 

Thou, whom stirred Jerusalem 

Sees, a prisoner, forlorn. 

Hither dragged in scorn ; 

Homeless one ! 

Thou, God's Son ? 

Thou claim the diadem ? 

Flouted by the base, 

Spit upon the face, 

Scourged, a very slave. 

Canst thou save? 

Bound, at my palace gates, 

Where ready Justice waits 

The traitor ; — thou 

Of open brow. 

And all unblushing face. 

Who canst our temple rase. 

And in three days each tower 

Build again with devilish power ; 

Art thou, a wretch undone, 



74 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Whom Jew and Gentile shun, 
On whom the thief hath trod, 
Indeed, the Blessed Son 
Of God ? 

JESUS. 

Yea, listen. Priest ! 
Who countest me as least ; 
Who dost the Judge assume, 
Exulting at my doom ; 
Who seest me thus uncrowned. 
With malefactors bound ; 
Where, at thy palace gates. 
Stern Justice waits 
The traitor. Now 
Listen ! for thou 
Shalt stand. 

When, at the high right hand 
Of Power, I sit, as Son, 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 75 

My rebel kingdom won ; — 

What time men leave their shrouds, 

Heaven lost, hell gained ; — 

Thyself, a trembling one, 

Myself, the Judge, on clouds ; 

The universe arraigned 

Before my righteous bar. 

While every world that seemed a star 

Shall crisp in flame ; 

Thou shalt behold my Name ! 

On him, of Bethlehem, 

Mark the diadem. 

And in the Nazarene — 

The base, the mean — 

Shalt see revealed 

The Everlasting Shield, 

And Hope of Israel ! Yea, 

When thy hopes flee away, 

Shalt know, indeed, the Lamb, 



76 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Slain, vainly, for thy sin — 
Who lost that thou might' st win, 
Is He, Son of the Blessed ! 
Who now — mid Roman wrong and Jew- 
ish jest, 
The cries of Hell and Death — 
The High Priest answereth : 
I AM! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 77 



ZACCHEUS. 

He sought the Saviour's face to see, 
And climbed the sycamore, that he, 
Secure above the crowding mass, 
Might mark the wondrous prophet pass. 

Stinted in soul, dishonest, mean, 
A publican ; worse than unclean 
Was he ; the people's common hate, 
Beyond the heathen in the gate. 

Yet must he needs that face behold. 
Of more, said Fame, than human mould ; 
And hark ! a thousand voices' hum 
Heralds his coming ! see Him come ; — 



78 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

The theme of David's chorded lyre ; 
Of whom spake seers in words of fire ; 
When everlasting years saw shine. — 
My hope to-day, O saint, and thine ! 

He comes, in meek and lowly guise. 
Though shouts of welcome shake the skies. 
He comes ! and kingly crowns are dim 
To light unseen, that circles Him ! 

In auburn locks, his parted hair 
Lies on a brow, surpassing fair ; 
His beauteous eyes are upward cast, 
Scanning his home, when trial 's past. 

Zaccheus saw the Man, the God ; — 
Yet knew not, He, who toiling trod 
With weary feet the dusty way. 
Was One whom eager worlds obey. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 79 

He met that upward glance with fear : 
" Ah, publican ! he sees thee here, 
And to the rabble's rage will give 
The wretch, they deem not fit to live." 

He sees ! — but those mild eyes reveal 
Thoughts of a heart that knows to feel ; 
He hears ! — but music's self is flung 
Forth in each accent of that tongue. 

"Make haste, Zaccheus! from the tree; 
To-day I must abide with thee." 
Abide with thee ! — his heart was broke 
For sin, and healed, as Jesus spoke. 

Fruits for repentance, straight in thought 
Conceived, sprang up, and ripe were brought ; 
He stood, redeemed — a man new-made 
By quickening, living grace, and said : 



80 POEMS AND LFRICKS, 

"Behold, O Lord ! the half of all 
My own the poor's I henceforth call ; 
If others' goods by fraud I hold, 
I now restore the law's fourfold." 

Redeemer ! has thy gospel power 
Thus sweetly, in auspicious hour. 
To win the heart, the stubborn break ? 
Such change can Love and Mercy make. 

By thy good Spirit's blessing? — then 
Instruct me thus to plead with men ; 
Nor, with a rash, repelling frown. 
Command the sinning rebel down. 

But ever may I kindly prove 
His heart with messages of love ; 
And speak, when wanderers I accost. 
Like Thee, who cam'st to save the lost 



Br WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 81 

And ever ready be, as Thou, 
To woo, and win, and gently bow 
The honored lordlmg — foe to Thee — 
Or scorned Zaccheus in the tree. 



OPIUM.* 

Pause not here, ye generous men 1 
One is vanquished, yet the foe, 

Hydra-headed, lives again ; 
Deal again the righteous blow. 

* At a recent medical temperance meeting held in 
New York, a physician presented statistics, by which 
it appears, that there are at least between 3,000 
and 5,000 persons in the city of New York, who ha- 
bitually use Opium in substance, or some of its prepa- 
rations. — Mew York Evangelist. 
6 



82 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Though a thousand Stills are dumb, 
Though ten thousand are reclaimed, 

Though the advocate of Rum 

Slinks from truth, convinced, ashamed, 

Though the weeping, joyful wife 
To her woman's love hath prest 

Him, the dead, restored to life. 

Though the poor man's home is blest, - 

Though around the rich man's board 
Tempting cups no longer shine. 

Whence in ceaseless streams is poured 
Sparkling and deceiving wine, — 

Yet the labor is not done ; 

Up ! and toil, and pray, and plan. 
From the regions of the sun. 

From the wily Musselman, 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 83 

Comes the deleterious drug, 

Subtler than the Upas tree ; 
Deadlier than the murderous Thug,* 

Famine, Fire, and Slaughter be. 



Shall we entertain the thief, 
That beguiles us with a dream, 

Causing earth's retreat of grief 
Folly's paradise to seem? 



To our fireside joys admit 
One that surely poisons bliss? 

Clasp a serpent of the pit, 

Feel his sting and hear his hiss ? 



* Thugs, a tribe of murderers lately discovered 
India. 



84 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

We, of many a glorious hill, 

Sacred valley, stream, and plain. 

Meekly own a Master's will, 
Who the Ottoman hath slain 1 



We, of that delivered land. 

Which for Temperance rose as one, 
When her millions took in hand 

Effort, and the work was done ? 



Let the heathen teach us ! let 
Patriotic, fearless Lin * 

Show us how by man is met 
Man-destroying, fatal sin. 



* A noble-minded pagan, who has succeeded in ban- 
ishing this destroyer from his country. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 85 

See his nation vexed and sold 
By the followers of Christ ! * 

Mind, the dupe of British gold, t 
Mind, unpurchased and unpriced. 



* " Why do Christians bring us opium, and bring it 
directly in defiance of our laws ? That vile drug has 
poisoned my son, ruined my brother, and well nigh 
led me to beggar my wife and children. You cannot 
wish me well, — your religion cannot be better than 
mine. Go first and persuade your own countrymen to 
relinquish this nefarious traffic, and then I will listen 
to your instructions on the subject of Christianity." — 
Remonstrance of a Chinese. 

t " The opium trade is the child of the East India 
Company's adoption. They have employed all the 
resources of science, wealth, and unlimited power, to 
force it to its present height ; and they have prosti- 
tuted the means of government to an unlawful end." 



86 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Mind is every where the same ; 

Mind, below base matter trod, 
Will at length assert its claim ; 

Mind alone proceeds from God. 

China from her slumber wakes ! — 
British Christians freely scoff; — 

China, strong in virtue, breaks 
Hell's infernal fetter off. 

Which the " Christian" nation — say; 

She that shackles gives for gain, 
Or the land that doth obey 

Virtue's call to snap the chain ? 

Sound the trumpet ! sound alarm ! 

Who, that dug his tyrant's grave, 
Will, subdued by sensual charm. 

Be another's mler slave ! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 87 



COMPLAINT TO THE STRANGER, 
YET NIGH. 

PART FIRST. 

O Stranger ! yet to me forever near ; 
Light ever shining round me, though I walk 
Often in darkness ; — Voice, of accents clear, — 
Though earth-stopt ears shut out thy heavenly 
talk; 

Where art thou? — If about me, why these fears? 
If in my soul, why is this midnight there ? 
If smiling on my spirit, whence these tears ? 
If whispering peace — this silence of despair? 



88 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Why go I, mourning, to the mercy-seat ? 
And why so cold before inviting Love ? 
Why, when heart-prostrate at thy bleeding feet. 
Will not this heart with real feeling move ? 

How can I hear the agonizing groan, 
Which, hourly, from Gethsemane I hear, 
Nor my rebellious passions much bemoan, 
Nor for my base transgressions give the tear ? 

How can I think upon the rabble-scorn, 
The horrid laugh, the soldier's mocking cry, 
The whip, the robe, the crown of cruel thorn, 
Nor bid my sins once and forever die ! 

How can I gaze upon thine awful Cross, 
Where faith beholds thee daily racked for me, 
Nor count this idolized vain self but loss. 
And viler than the vil'st, compared with Thee ? 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 89 

How can I greet thy day of blessings, when 
Weekly reminded by its Sabbath light 
Of victory over hell and hellish men, 
And not essay sin's victory in thy might? 

How can I gaze upon thy pictured life, 
All perfect, all transparent, and divine — 
And not with raging lusts wage deadly strife, 
If so the Exemplar may indeed be mine? 

How look at my own life with other thought. 
Than sorrow, loathing, unforgiving hate ! 

thou, by whose one purchase I am bought. 
Incarnate Sufferer, God Immaculate, 

1 cling to thee ! — all doubting, trembling, cling 
Only to thee ! — for am I not thine own ? 
Didst thou not call me ? — did I not thee bring 
And give thee all ? — O, leave me not alone ! 



90 POEMS AND LYRIGKS, 

Am I not thine ?— whose else ?— from sin I shrink; 
I cannot fellowship with thy lost foe ; 
Think of thy blood, my Saviour ! and bethink 
Thyself of me, for whom that stream did flow. 



PART SECOND. 

Body and soul I gave thee in that hour ; 
Body and soul, redeemed for aye by blood ; 
A slave, set free from satan's captive power ; 
A slave adopted as a Son of God ! 



By thy sad passion in the Garden, hear ! 

By thy dread pangs, to mortal men unknown,- 

By thy last superhuman cry, O hear ! 

My Lord, my Saviour! leave me not alone! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. Ql 

Though thee not loving, as I know I should ; 
Though sin not hating, as I feel I may ; 
Though holiness not having, as I would ; 
Though stricken oft, yet wandering oft away ; 

Yet I do love thee, and in thee delight ; 
And hate I sin and self yet more and more ; 
In holiness' true way, though not the light 
I 've gained, yet entered am within the door ; 

And think I see its glimmerings, like a star, 
Beckoning me on. Thou, that art midnight's gem. 
Burst out in glory on me, and afar 
Guide me — no shepherd-king — to Bethlehem. 

Doubting and fearing, to Emmaus, lo, 
I travel ; mourning, till the shut of day ; 
With me that journey, blessed Stranger, go ; 
My heart shall burn within me by the way. 



92 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Groping, and stumbling, do I take thy hand, 
And grasp it — for salvation's self is there; 
And thou shalt lead me to the ''better land," 
And with such staff I may not — can't despair. 

And, irrespective of thy purpose, me 
To save, I '11 worship thee for what thou art ; 
And as I 'm thine, thou mine wilt ever be ; 
My Lord ! my God ! I give thee all my heart. 

My Lord ! my God ! I covenant yet with Thee 
Over and over. By a tenfold cord 
Stronger than Death — volition all left free, — 
And soft as Love, bind me to thee, my Lord ! 

Now, in my darkness, I believe thee nigh ; 
Now, with my Comforter, in grief I 'm blest ; 
Come near me ; so that heavy laden, I 
Thee, all-possessing, may in thee have rest. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 93 

Come nearer ! — All desires are lost in one ; 
One mighty prayer to be set free from sin ; 
And thou canst grant it. Grant it, holy Son, 
And this poor, happy soul forever win ! 



THE UNSPOKEN AT SEA. 

Why don't one of the thousand ships 
That cross each other's different way, 
On Tropic waters, or where dips 
The rudder in some Orient bay. 
Meet her that left us months ago, 
With him on board, so dear to me — 
And give to winds that westward blow, 
Report of " Spoken far at Sea?" 



94 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Why don't some homeward barque make sign, 
And catch the signal from her mast, 
Though there might not be word or line 
Of greeting, as each hurried past 1 
Such kindly act would hundred hearts, ' 
Now dark with doubt, light up with glee ; 
I 'm sure 't would mine, for hope departs, 
She is so long Unspoke at Sea. 



I seize in haste the daily sheet ; 

Nor business, news, nor fashion's call 

Allures me, so I may but see 't, — 

That name more welcome than them all ! 

I shudder at " Disasters," skip 

The "Cleared," — "Arrived" detains not me, 

Then dash it down with quivering lip ; — 

She is Unspoken still at Sea, 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 95 

I speculate on chances ; think 
How many sail o'er that blue main, 
Who meet and hail, depart and drink 
To such brief challenge yet again, — • 
And wonder, in this lapse of time, 
These weary days, thrice told to me — 
Through various latitude and clime, 
She yet sails on, Unspoke at Sea. 



While yon great highway is alive 
With canvass, waving like sea-wings. 
And homeward countless vessels drive. 
And " homeward " every sailor sings. 
Say, is she of that caravan 
Companionless ? and yet must she 
Of that long file be rear or van, — 
The lonely ship, Unspoke at Sea? 



96 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

'T is false ! that dream of yesternight, 
When sorceress Fancy conjured up 
Ghosts of the past — each jeering sprite 
The prophet of a sadder cup ; — 
'T was not that ship I saw go down ! 
'T was not my boy who called on me, 
When ocean, gathering in one frown. 
Closed over her, Unspoke at Sea ! 



I know that Fear loves well to sketch 
The reeling mast, the shattered side. 
And lingers strangely round the wretch. 
Who sinks in the remorseless tide ; 
And yet in after days such thought 
Has served for jest and laughter free. 
When favoring gales to port have brought 
The ship, so long Unspoke at Sea, 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 97 

I saw her sit upon the deep ; 
She floated like a perfect thing, 
And conscious that she was to keep 
A gem, and back the treasure bring. 
I saw her beating first, as though 
But coy to try her powers, — how she 
All proudly leaped, at length, and so 
She left us — the Unspoke at Sea ! 



ThBtvoysLge, her Jirst ! we prosperous deemed 
Would be, when to the outward breeze 
She flung her sheets, like one that seemed 
Self-confident, and at her ease, 
Our cheers receiving as she past ; 
The proud, good ship ! it cannot be, — 
O no, that voyage is not her last, 
Though she is long Unspoke at Sea. 
7 



98 POEMa AND LYRICKS, 

Her taper masts, her frame of oak, 
Grace, strength, in due proportion gave ; 
From stem to stern, a braver woke 
Never the sleeping giant wave. 
She must, she shall outlive the blast. 
That sends down navies ! does not she 
Hold precious freight? Aye, she, at last. 
Will come, though yet Unspoke at Sea. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 99 



NEW ENGLAND SABBATH. 

What a sweet silence lies upon thy hills, 
And solemnizes thy fair vales to-day, 
New England ! As it every passion stills. 
Unholy thoughts take wing and flee away ; 
While the glad passengers the influence feel 
Of Sabbath sights and sounds, such as them 

greet 
When sloping upland, lawn, and field reveal 
The thronging yeomanry with willing feet 
Hasting to Zion. Hark ! the village bells 
Joyfully call each to the other, telling, 
As their rich music o'er the landscape swells — 
That the Great King of Kings to-day is dwelling 
In temples made with hands. O haste, and bow 
Before the Lord, the Sovereign Maker, now ! 



100 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



THE WIDOW'S OIL.* 

" Bring forth the vessels ! borrow more, 
Of all thy neighbors, not a few ; 
God, who regards the widow's store, 
Her slender pittance will renew." 

Then did the widow's heart rejoice ; 

No more in penury's depths to toil ; 
Those vessels, at the prophet's voice. 

She sees run o'er with precious oil. 



* " And it came to pass, when the vessels were full, 
that she said unto her son, ' Bring me yet a vessel.' And 
he said unto her, 'There is not a vessel more.* And 
the oil stayed." — II. Kings^ iv. 6. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 101 

" And yet bring more ! " No more were 
brought, 
And straight the flowing treasure stayed ; 
O God, how fully we are taught 

That thus we bound thy Spirit's aid. 

For when the Oil of Grace, in store 
Unmeasured, flows for ready hearts, — 

Hearts, emptied of their pride, no more 
Appear, and slighted Grace departs. 



102 POEMS AND LTRICKS, 



BURNING OF THE STEAMBOAT 
LEXINGTON.* 



The flames advance with sweeping stride, 

Impatient to devour ; 
And cast their lurid light upon 

The scene of awful stour. 

**0 cling, my child ! O cling to me ! 
Yet nearer ! for I dread 
Those flames that wreath so fearfully ; " — 
The mother wildly said. 

* " A child, partly scorched, was seen floating near 
the boat, quite dead ; its face was covered with a green 
veil." 



BY WILLIAM B- TAPPAN. 103 

And closer to her throbbing heart, 
Where harm might ne'er annoy, 

With all a yearning mother's force, 
She pressed her little boy. 

And fiercer blazed the fiery doom ; 

She knew its presence near ; 
For self, amid her mightier care, 

She had no thought or fear. 

" O mother ! save me ! for I feel 
The dreadful fire is nigh ; 
It burns ! it burns ! O clasp me close ; 
O closer ! or I die." 

The frenzied mother, taught by love, 

Which only mothers knovi^, 
To shield her little trembling boy 

From the devouring foe, 



104 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Tears off her veil, and on his face 
Binds fast the fragile screen ; 

If thus she might that foe and him 
A barrier put between ! 

O God ! on that disastrous page 

Of anguish, fear, and fate. 
How sweet to read, in touching lines, 

Our holy Nature's trait, — 

Which sadly soothes the bitter thought. 
That will the heart employ, 

When dwelling on that frightful wreck 
Of love, and hope, and joy ! 

And Thou, who didst across the gloom 

Of horror, such as this, 
Fling that bright ray, canst well bestow 

For pain eternal bliss. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAFPAN. 105 



II. 



Night's dream pursueth me by day ; — * 

Still fancy doth behold 
Those upraised hands, to keep away 

The pitiless, keen cold. 



O Boy ! thy suffering toucheth me 
Yet more than theirs, who met 

With manhood's stoic constancy, 
The doom that them beset. 



* " A little Boy, four years old, was found in the 
boat, frozen; with both hands pressed against his 
ears — the emblem of helplessness in suffering." 



106 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

More eloquent thy helpless woes 

And thy imperfect pain, 
Than all the mightier pangs of those, 

Who battled fate in vain. 

For in the terrors of that hour 

Thou couldst not understand 
How she, whose watchful, shielding power 

Had ever been at hand, 

To screen thee from the stormy strife, 

Which mortals here betide, 
How she, who, to protect thy life, 

Would willingly have died, 

Could see thee in that icy boat. 

Nor fly to save, nor why, 
Mid those strange horrors doomed to float - 

Thou shouldst be left to die. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 107 

Methinks, as Cold around thy frame 

Its dreadful mantle flung, 
And chilled thy heart, thy mother's name 

Dwelt on thy moaning tongue. 

What thoughts of rescue briefly past, 

What fears, 't were vain to say ; 
Didst thou expect her till the last. 

To snatch her child away 

From the insidious, fatal sleep 

Of those who sleep to die ? 
From the expectant, eager Deep, 

That, frowning, curled on high? 

And, franticly, her babe from harms, 
To save such wealth too blest — 

To clasp within her straining arms, 
And hush upon her breast ? 



108 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Too busy she to heed thy fate ! 

She, too, has work with Death ! 
On child and mother angels wait, 

To take the parting breath. 

O Boy ! the separation made, 
Was short, indeed, to thee; — 

A sigh — and on that bosom laid, 
To rest eternally. 

1840. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 109 



PRESBYTERIAN. 

" The word Presbyterian, anagramatized, is Best in 
Prayer." 

Not so ! — in unambitious day 

Of her first love, indeed, it might, — 
Not now she cares who best can j?ray, 

But who is best approved in Fight, 
Of Paul are some, ApoUos others, — 

And thus the world would have it be ; 
Which quotes no more their love as brothers, 

But " how these Christians disagree ! " 



110 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Weep ! that her elders faint in prayer ; 

Weep ! that her young men turn to sin ; 
Weep ! that her arm is palsied, where 

She conquered once, and still should win. 
Weep ! that her lamp so dimly burns, 

And by her influence, loathing light, 
That Mercy's cloud of brilliance turns 

On the whole Church its edge of night. 

1838. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. Ill 



A LATE LOSS. 

He is not dead ! O, can he die 
Who quits the Earth and seeks the sky ? 
Who, prisoner here, his prison breaks. 
And sickness, death, and chain forsakes ? 

He is not dead ! O, is he dead, 
Who, hungering here, has found new Bread ? 
Who, thirsting in the weary strife, 
Drinks at the goal Eternal Life ? 

He is not dead, who wears a crown ; 
He is not dead, who casts it down 
At Jesus' feet, and with the throng 
Swells the high harp and victor song ! 



112 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Not dead ! though here his voice of love 
No longer wins to worlds above ; 
Not dead ! though here Corruption calls 
His beauty to its marble halls. 

He lives ! he lives ! and only he. 
Who is with Christ, and still shall be. 
He lives, who from Sin's thrall has fled ; 
We feel its power ; we are the dead ! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 113 



TO MY COUNTRY. 

A SORRY spectacle dost thou present 

Unto the world's broad gaze ; 
The garment of thy comeliness is rent ; 

Cast out in the highways, 

And lying in thy blood, naked, abhorred, 

Art thou, of hopes so high ! 
Whose infancy was blessed of the Lord, 

Whose youth, beneath his eye. 

Flourished, approved. For thee, the world hath 
tears, 
That thou, — who with such grace. 
Beauty, and glory, didst among thy peers 
Assert, and take thy place, 
8 



114 FOEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Fairest of all the nations; o'er whose head 

Was victory's banner flying; 
A new world for thy empire, whither fled 

Freedom, for the old sighing, — 

Shouldst put at fault all prophecy, all hope, 

Which have the Ages blest — 
That boundless Mind should revel with free scope 

In the exhaustless West ; 

That here, at length, the desolating wave 

Of Cruelty should be stayed; 
That mad Oppression, in its deep, deep grave, 

Should here for aye be laid. 

Repent thee ! — Nations for thy daring crime 
Weep sorely ; shouldst not tJiou ? 

Nineveh once to put off" sin had time, 
For thee that time is NOW ! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 115 

Do it ! and take thy place, the highest, where 

Sit the old crowns ; thine own 
Brighter, and lovelier, beyond compare, 

Than ever decked a throne. 

Do it ! and fireside talk, and hymns of home 

Shall be where rings the whip ; 
And blessings on the rich man's field and dome 

Be on the poor man's lip. 

Do it ! and in America's nao sons: 

Sincerely shall join all ; 
Do it ! and unto God, in shouts, loud, long. 

What freeman will not call ? 



116 POEMS AND LYEICKS, 



LYDIA* 

Seller of purple ! Listener to the word 
Brought to thy heart by Silas and by Paul, 
Baptized with all thy household; thou wast 

stirred — 
By the great debt incurred to grace ; by all 
The blessed love which converts have for them, 
Who teach stray feet the way to Bethlehem, — 
To show^ true hospitality of heart. 
To entertain each God-sent, gracious guest, 
Unwilling from such benizon to part. 
Thy humble dome with such how greatly blest ! 
Thou wast indeed judged faithful in thy love, 
And holy footsteps honored thy abode ; 
Nobler, thus sheltering heralds from above, 
Than proudest hall by proudest monarch trod. 

* Acts, xvi. 14. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 117 

THE LATE REV. TIMOTHY ALDEN ; 

AFTER READING A SKETCH OF HIS LAST HOURS. 

I KNEW thee once where sweeps Ohio's tide ; 

An exile thou from thy New England home; 
Yet not in western solitudes to hide, 

Nor to acquire rich knowledge, didst thou 
roam. 
Knowledge thou hadst, and taste; and thou 

couldst please i 

With various lore ; thou didst not stray for these. 

But to disperse thy wealth of learning ; so 
Thy fellow men should profit by it well ; 

That Lowliness the glorious Cross might know ; 
That Pomp might turn aside and with Re- 
ligion dwell. 

This was thy aim, if thee I read aright, 

Thou page of modesty, and love, and light ! 



118 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Yes, and to show in action, word, and look, — 
The which the world most eagerly doth scan — 

That all was modelled from the sacred Book, 
Whose pages pattern out the Christian man ; 

Who only knows, in spite of learning's pride, 

The alphabet divine of Christ the Crucified. 

And therefore 't is no wonder unto me, 

That near thy dying couch the Saviour stood ; 

And angels' wings shook round thee fragrancy. 
The while they bore thee over Jordan's flood. 

Such thy departure ; so the righteous die 

Who live the righteous, and O thus may I. 



Bi^ WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 119 



THE REFORMED INEBRIATE'S 
PRAYER. 



God, that I no longer lie 

In horrid depths of sin and shame, 
Degraded, reckless, ruined — I 
Owe unto thee. — I bless thy Name ! 
My fellow-men had cast me out 
To perish ; and the brutal shout 
Was all I heard to comfort me. 

1 saw but scorn, — I worship Thee ! 



120 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

There 's joy where rained but tears before ; 
This withered heart revives ! — H is warm ! 
Long tossed, I touch at last the shore, 
And from my soul has passed the storm. 
My wife ! — she never lived till now ! 
My girl ! — ha ! here 's a quiet brow ; 
My boy, with love above his years, 
A father's frown no longer fears. 



Restored, I take his lawful place. 
Who well fulfils great Nature's plan ; 
I tremble at no mortal's face ; 
I write myself, to-day, A MAN ! 
Whereas in sin I once was lost, 
A foolish wanderer, vexed and crossed — 
I 'm found ! I 'm found ! — I lift my head, 
Who lately lay among the dead. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 121 

I joy ! I triumph ! yet I fear ! 

I am but dust, thou knowest, Lord ; 

If Thou who led' St me, leav'st me Tiere^ 

I falsify my plighted word. 

That broken vow the entering wedge 

Will be to deeper guilt. — The pledge, 

If kept, an angel nigh will be ; 

If broke, a devil unto me ! 



What can I do, if Cunning wear 
The mask of Wisdom, and to pass 
The weary hours, with smiles declare, 
There's nothing like the social glass? 
This I 'd resist — put down — but what 
If from the cleansing yet one spot 
Escaped — and lurks some inward will — 
The leprosy remaining still ! 



122 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

What, if in an unguarded hour, 
I, left alone in Virtue's pride, 
And seeing not the tempest lower. 
And hearing not the coming tide, — 
Beneath the Pledge my fortunes screening, 
Ail-proudly on my own works leaning. 
Should find how insufficient all 
My feeble arm can do — and fall! 



Fall! never, never, to regain 
My station ; — hope forever crost ; 
On wife, and child, and self, a stain 
Written in tears of blood, — all lost ! 
O God, it must not, cannot be : 
It will not, if I trust in thee ; 
Then as Thou art, be still my friend, 
And keep me even to the end. 



By WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 123 

He that had been possessed, and whom 
The Saviour did from chains unbind, — 
The living inmate of the tomb, 
Clothed, and restored to his right mind — 
Put up one prayer* — his prayer is mine! 
O Jesus, that I may be Thine ; 
That where Thou art I may abide. 
Clinging, a child, to Thy dear side. 

* St. Mark, V. 18. 



124 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



CHAINS. 

Chain a man to abject labor, 
Yoke him with the stupid brute ; 

Then, from thy unrighteous sowing, 
Watch the true unholy fruit. 

From immortal Mind 't is springing. 
Mind, that bondage has debased — 

Mean, contemptible to vision ; 
Loathsome, bitter to the taste. 

Stubborn man, with base dishonor, 
Struggles madly for a day ; 

Yet at night he loves his prison. 
And his fetters are his play. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 125 

Chain a woman — if thou darest — 
Task her, mock her, crush her low ; 

Scourge her — if thou art a devil — 
Is she sordid ? abject ? — No ! 

Meanness reaches not the temple 

Hallowed in her inner part ; 
Anguish, chain, and lash and mockery 

Never soil a woman's heart. 

Seljfishness becomes more selfish 

In the fretting storms of life ; 
While the pure, exalted spirit 

Waxes purer in the strife. 



126 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



A THOUGHT IN NONANTUM VALE, 
BRIGHTON. 

I WALK among these plants and flowers, — 
The air is charged with sweets ; 

I live, as this Arabian gale 
My fainting spirit greets, 

I go : — my garments bear away 

The fragrance on them laid ; 
And with their many-voiced perfumes 

Tell where to-day I 've strayed. 

And so the soul that seeks delight 

In interview with God, 
And hath his garden of chief spice, 

Myrrh, aloes, cassia, trod, 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 127 

Will find, wherever he may go, 

That fragrance with him stay ;. 
And heaven, still lingering on his steps — 

More odorous than May. 



128 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



VERSES AT MACHIAS; 

AFTER ATTENDING THE MAINE CONFERENCE OF 
CHURCHES. 

I 'vE journeyed o'er thy noble hills, O Maine ! 
And seen their torrents leaping, wildly free ; 

And threaded wooded vale ; and trod the plain, 
Where hastes the shining river to the sea. 

" 'T is beautiful ! " I said — and joyful prayer 
For blessings on thee rose, that I could look 

On lessons written out so wondrous fair, 
For my instruction, in the Maker's book. 

Yet not the noble hill, nor torrent free, 
Nor wooded vale, nor plain, whose shining flood 

Hastens unto its lover, the great sea — 
Reveals to me so much a present God, 



Br WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 129 

As doth the quiet lesson, taught by this 
Communion of the hearts that grace hath knit, 

The while I read, imparting solemn bliss, 
Which, if not Heaven, doth much resemble it. 

And well instructs me, that though pilgrims 
may 
Seem separate in the path that leads above. 

Yet ever, in that sole and narrow way. 
Where Christians walk, they walk in Christian 
Love. 



130 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



FOR AMERICA. 

God — of earth the only Ruler — 
Why should earth forget thee so ! 
God of nations, shall the nations 
Thee, their only Ruler, know? 

Old dominions, proud dominions — 
How they rose, the boast of men ! 
But they knew not God, and therefore 
Sank they into dust again. 

Where art thou, imperial Tyre? 
City from the ocean won — 
Hundred-gated Thebes and Memphis, 
Nineveh and Babylon ? 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 131 

God, how slow to learn are nations ! 
Else should we have spelled thy Name ; 
In their end have read thine anger ; — 
Grant that ours be not the same. 

New Republics, tall Republics, 
Homes of free and fearless men — 
As the ancient, proud dominions. 
Thou wilt sink to dust again, 

If they know Thee not. — O Ruler, 
Let not ours forget Thee so ; 
God of nations, let our nation 
Thee, its only Ruler, know. 



132 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



THE EXILE. 

An altar, in a foreign land, 

The Hebrew worshipper may raise ; 
And priest and viol, harp and band 

Be gathered there in prayer and praise : 
And glory — heaven-descended beam — 

May wrap the place where buds the rod ; 
The awful ark, itself, may seem 

The dwelling of a present God. 

In vain, in vain, I see him weep, 
And hang his harp upon the trees ; 

His hand of skill forgets to sweep 

The strings to " Maschil " or " Degrees." 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 133 

By that strange river thought recalls 

Siloa, and the blessed hours 
Of prayer, within Moriah's walls, 

Of praise, beneath his Zion-towers. 

For Israel is an Exile still. 

How can the Exile render thanks, 
Far from the city, temple, hill — 

By Egypt's Nile, on Chebar's banks? 
Those wandering tribes, that fainting priest — 

They are not Israel here ; for them 
No home is like the glorious East, 

No city like Jerusalem. 

The Christian worshipper, below. 

An altar rears to faith above ; 
And on it flames his zeal, and flow 

Around it streams of hope and love. 



134 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

And sometimes in ascending praise, 
And sometimes in prevailing prayer, 

Glory, most sweet and awful, plays 
About him, as if God were there. 

In vain, in vain, I see his tears, — 

In Kedar's tents constrained to dwell — 
What trials, toils, temptations, fears ! 

The end ! the end ! — O who may tell ? 
And e'en if rainbow-hope returns, 

Thought climbs its arch, and seeks the gates 
Within, where purer worship burns. 

Where holier hymn the pilgrim waits. 

For he is banished from his love ; 

And he, an Exile, wanders long ; 
And pants for sacrifice above, — 

The Priest, the altar, joy and song. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 135 

Yet shout, my soul, for prospects given, 

A Saviour, Temple, Diadem ; — 
No home is like the glorious Heaven ; 

No city like Jerusalem ! 



136 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



THE CHILD REDEEMER. 

I CANNOT doubt, that Jesus met, 
In childhood, jeers and scorn ; 
Ere purple mocked him, or beset 
His regal brows the thorn. 

I cannot doubt, that Nazareth's cry 
Pursued the holy boy, 
Ere Herod's men of war did try 
The martyr to destroy. 

He walks abroad — the same, whose feet 
Prest heaven's eternal floor, 
Ere skies were taught the earth to greet, 
Or seas to kiss the shore. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 137 

His patient mien, his look of love, 
His eye of tempered flame, 
That showed the eagle with the dove, 
Might surely reverence claim. 

His parted hair of graceful curls, 
His innocence and youth, 
The words, that from his lips, in pearls, 
Dropt out, of precious Truth — 

Might teach, methinks, those rabble-boys 
To bless the ground he trod ; 
Yea, join in one, each eager voice 
To shout a present God. 

They worship not — nor know that He, 
Who in their midst is seen. 
Is One, the Chaldean quaked to see 
His darting fires between. 



138 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Nor deem they that the " Fourth," in form, 
Who trod that furnace then. 
Is here to quell a hotter storm. 
That 's kindled up for men. 

And so they mock him, flout him, vex 
Themselves, to vex his soul ; 
In vain — they cannot him perplex, 
Who can himself control. 

How often. Saviour, in thy walk, 
Thou 'st met with sinful me ; 
Thy look was love ; all love thy talk ; 
And yet I knew not Thee. 

My heart misgives me, that with scorn 
I used the heavenly Guest ; — 
Break, break my heart ! the pride be shorn, 
That rises in my breast. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 139 

Yet, as I could not vex thy peace, 
Though sore thy grace I grieved — 
O bid this warring tumult cease, 
As when I first believed. 

Unchain these faculties, that lie 
Imprisoned thus in sense ; 
And bid the fogs, that blind me, fly 
With sin forever hence. 

And lift my spirit, that inclines 
Thus earthward, to thy throne ; 
Undazzled by deceitful shrines, 
To bend to Thee alone. 



140 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



TO SPRING. 

Hail, beauteous Spring ! 
Attendant queen of flowers — 

Who smiles dost bring 
From Pleasure's fairy bowers. 

Hail, beauteous Spring ! 
Parent of virgin dews — 

With thee are seen 
The Dance and laughing Muse. 



Hail, beauteous Spring ! 
We greet thy charming reign; 

Thy vocal choirs 
Shall wake the groves again. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 141 

Thy song we hear, 
At eve and early morn, 

When rosy May 
With Flora treads the lawn. 



Hail, beauteous Spring ! 
Daughter of early Love; 

'T is thou dost bring 
Joy to the mated Dove. 

All nature smiles, 
Hope plumes her halcyon wing, 

Sweet peace beguiles. 
Hail to thee, beauteous Spring ! 
1819. 



142 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



RUTH'S PETITION, 

Mother ! in Judah's favored land, 
Thou seek'st thy distant kindred band. 
Thy father's country claims thee now ; 
Thy home, and God that hears thy vow. 
The oil of gladness waits to shed 
Its healing, there, upon thy head. 
But shall relentless barriers be 
Between this widowed heart and thee ? 
Let Orpah to her gods repair. 
To Heaven shall Ruth address the prayer. 
For where thou goest I will go. 
Thy lodging and thy rest will know. 
The people claim thou claim'st as thine, 
The God thou serv'st be ever mine. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 143 

Where thou shalt sleep in peaceful death, 
There will I yield my willing breath. 
The dust, that gives Naomi rest, 
Shall be my bed by friendship blessed. 
And may the Power that rules above, 
That sees^this heart and scans its love — ' 
Do thus and also more to me. 
If aught but Death part me and thee. 

1820. 



144 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



THE MOTHER. 

A Mother's love — how great that love ! 

Nor crime nor folly makes it less ; 
The world may scorn, and God may frown ; 

She only knows her child to bless. 

A Mother's care — how great that care ! 

Increasing with the flight of years ; 
Watchful in youth ; in riper age, 

Still following with its prayers and tears. 

God, thou this burden laid'st; — O God, 
Thou only know'st its depth of woe, 

Or gladness. Shall she, all alone. 
Bear it unhelped, unnoticed ? NO ! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 145 



AN OLIVE LEAF FROM GETH- 
SEMANE.* 

And was this plucked by Friendship's hand? 
And was this kindly borne to me, 
From the heart's treasure-land, 
Gethsemane ! 

* Presented to me by F. W. Moores, Esq., Sailing 
Master, U. S. Navy; whose descriptive note, from 
which the following is an extract, enhances the value 
of the gift. 

" We wound our way beneath the Hill of Zion, 
and below us on our right lay the valley of the Son of 
Hinnom. Proceeding onward a little, we dipped our 
bottle and bathed our faces in the Pool of Siloam. 
The spot seemed indeed sacred, where our Redeemer 
had condescended to show his divinity to men. Still 

10 



146 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

The conscious soil, that gave to birth 
Its venerable parent tree, 

Was 't thy blood-moistened earth, 
Gethsemane ! 

On whose cold bosom, that sad night. 
The Guiltless sank for guilty me ; 
When angel-wings made bright 
Gethsemane ! 

onward, and following the windings of Moriah, we 
halted at the Garden of Gethsemane. We walked 
silently and sadly beneath the shades of the Olive ; 
calling up the scenes of the agonized suffering and the 
betrayal of our Blessed Lord. And as we noticed the 
spot in the depths of the Valley of Jehoshaphat, en- 
compassed by the wall, olive grove, and hill side, and 
marked its shaded retirement, we exclaimed, ' O ! how 
fitting the place ! ' We could have lingered and 
■^^ept — but were hurried onward to other scenes of 
thrilling interest." 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 147 

When darkness o'er a God in tears 
Drew solemn veil, that none might see 
How wrath divine woke fears, 
Gethsemane ! 

When, that might pass the dreadful cup, 
The Sufferer prayed in agony ; 
Yet, bade to drink it up, 
Gethsemane — 

His prayer had answer in new power. 
Strengthened, he should the victor be. 
Though hell was strong that hour, 
Gethsemane ! 

O garden of Hesperides, 

I seek thy golden-fruited tree, 
Whose apple heals disease, 
Gethsemane ! 



148 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Eden, where, if I take and eat, 
'T is life, immortal life to me ; 
My soul's un cloying meat, 
Gethsemane ! 

O thoughts, how sweet and full of heaven, 
That rise, and throng, and cling to thee ; 
Wings ! wings ! — if wings were given, 
Gethsemane ! 

Not thee I 'd seek ; tliou art too far ; 
The Crucified is nigh to me ; 

Life's joy, day's sun, night's star; 
Gethsemane ! 

All day, his presence here to keep, 

I need not such memorial see ; 
• All night. Love doth not sleep, 
Gethsemane ! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 149 

Yet will the frequent thought return, 
All redolent of bliss and thee — 

Quickening cold love, till love shall burn, 
Gethsemane ! 

No pledge shall wake my joy ; my grief 
Shall few memorials stir, like thee, 
Thou sacred Olive Leaf; — 
Gethsemane ! 

Eyes, with delicious tears be dim ; 

Soul, leap ! for Love hath set thee free ; 
Voice, join with Calvary's hymn 
" Gethsemane ! " 

Anticipate the theme, the same 
That sung by rescued worlds will be. 
When worlds expire in flame, 
" Gethsemane ! " 



150 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Thou brooding Dove, thou Spirit, come ! 
And bring the wanderer home to thee ; 
Earth, Earth is not my home, 
Gethsemane ! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 151 



PITY IN WOMAN. 

Rich is the drop from the soft lid of sorrow, 

When Pity no more its emotions can hide ; 

'T is a gem which the trappings of splendor 

would borrow, — 
A brilliant, surpassing the symbols of pride. 



Dear are the accents that, misery disarming, 
Flow out in music and thrill through the soul ; 
Sweet is the strain which, the lone bosom charm- 
ing, 
Bids the unhappy admit its control. 



152 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Bright is the glance of Compassion when beam- 
ing, 
It tells, O how gladly, it hastes to relieve ; 
Purer the ray than when Diana, gleaming, 
Softly alights on the mantle of eve. 



O Woman ! when Pity, thy bosom possessing, 
Lends radiance to beauty and charms to its hue, 
Mortality surely is crowned with its blessing, 
Heaven's last, fairest gift is revealed to the view. 

1819. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 153 



HYMN, 

Written for the Anniversary of the Hammond 
Street Sabbath School Association, Bangor, Maine, 
December 14th, 1840. 



Thee we heard not, when thy footsteps 

Told the Children's Friend was nighf; 
Thee we saw not, when their shoutings 

At thy presence rent the sky. 
Yet beyond those Hebrew warblers 

We, of Gentile race, are blest ; 
Short with them thy tarrying — with us 

Thou hast taken up thy rest. 



154 fPOEMS AND LYRICKS, 

"Taken up thy rest" — Redeemer! 

Yes, though not on Jewish ground ; 
Here the youthful heart may find thee, 

If that heart is contrite found. 
And thouofh thunder not " hosannas" 

Where thy foot our street hath trod, 
Yet we feel in hymns of worship 

Thy sweet presence. Son of God. 



Thou didst never, while Incarnate, 
Take us in thine arms of love. 

Saying, with thy lips of mercy, 
" Such compose my realm above ; " 

Yet thy children, if accepted, 

We redeemed and crowned shall be ; 

And with those shall find protection. 
Who are folded, Lord, by Thee. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 155 



HYMN, 

Written for the Dedication of the Church of the 
Pilgrimage ; Plymouth, Massachusetts. 

O God, what clouds of glory rolled 

Around, within, thy house of old ! 

To dedicate that house, what throngs 

Its pavement trod ! — what prayers ! what songs ! 

Moriah's awful mount was there, 
And thoughts of Abraham's faith and prayer 
Came up where Israel's thousands knelt. 
Where God between the cherubs dwelt. 

Yet not less glory's cloud around 
This house is seen, and o'er this ground; 
Not less sweet thoughts of faith appear. 
Not less the Hebrews' God is here. 



156 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Yon Bay, whose stormy waters bore 
The Child of Promise to this shore , — 
Yon Mount, where sacrifice was made, 
And where the patriarchs' bones are laid, 

Are holy. — Thou that led'st thy flock, 
Our Pilgrim Fathers — to this Rock, 
As thou wast then their staff and rod, 
Be thou to-day the children's God. 

On ground wet with their frequent tear. 
Ye Gates, that now with joy we rear. 
Be lifted ! — " Yet to whom lift we ? " 
O Trinity 1 to Thee ! to Thee ! 

1840. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 157 



ROOM IN MOUNT AUBURN! 

Room in Mount Auburn ! — for the traveller * 

Room! 
Who comes from pilgrimage to seek a tomb. 
Where throng the wise, the gifted, holy dead, 
The greatly wept for, he should lay his head. 
And the same spotless robe, that winter throws 
On these, should wrap him in a kind repose. 



* A young American clergyman, of great promise, 
went to Europe in pursuit of health ; died at Paris, 
and his remains were brought home for interment in 
Mount Auburn. 



158 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

The same sweet warblings when the small birds 

grieve, 
The same fair flowers that early May will weave, 
Shall be for him ; — none nobler, purer, rest 
Until the resurrection of the blest. 
Room ! Room ! for him, who, seeking distant 

Seine, 
Discovered rivers fringed with heavenly green. 
Who went for life and gained it — yielding 

breath, 
Life, everlasting Life he found in Death. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 159 



THE FOURTH OF JULY. 

O Freedom ! how shameless the falsehood, to- 
day, 
And insult that will at thy altars obtain — 
As slaveholders there in hypocrisy lay 

Oblation, with hands that have fastened the 
chain. 

Yea, insult and falsehood from men in whose 
veins 
Flows the blood of the Sumpters and Pinck- 
neys of yore ; 
Who thrive and wax fat on iniquity's gains. 
Yet flushed with their plunder are eager for 
more. 



160 POEMS AND LTRICKS, 

Of thee, Child of Heaven ! how deeply are these 
Unworthy, who boast that they sprung from 
the brave, — 
Who revel in liberty, yet to the lees 
Have urged the sad chalice that 's mixed for 
the slave. 

Unworthy — who trippingly take on their tongue 
The names of old glory, Yorktown and Eu- 

TAW ; 

Can it be that such words to the winds may be 
flung 
By these scorners of faith and humanity's law ? 

Of what is his lofty and chivalrous soul 

Made up, whose nobility lives on the lip, — 

Who, lord of his brother, can wickedly dole, 
Great God, to thy image the fetter and whip ! 



Bi' WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 161 

O, it sickens my spirit, when men of the South 
Stalk proudly o'er lands that are scathed with 
a curse ; 
Nor deem themselves leprous, as, wiping their 
mouth. 
They prate of the sinews that fatten the purse. 

Of their deeds, whose hot natures would boil up 
with hell. 
Should a lie spot a wife or a daughter's fair 
fame, 
Thou Midnight! with tongue of the trumpet 
canst tell. 
Ay, couple their honor with bottomless shame. 

Of incest and rapine that covet not day, 

Of wrongs which their footsteps make haste 
to commit. 



XI 



162 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Of blood, which the ocean can ne'er wash away, 
Will a record be shown, when the judgment 
shall sit. 

Yes, then, to men's eyes almost sinless shall be 
The vilest that groped in iniquity's night. 

As a universe, shuddering and scorning, will see 
The Christian Man-seller come out to the 
light. 

1835. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 163 



ON VISITING THE SCENES OF 
CHILDHOOD. 

Hail former scenes of childhood's early day ! 

When peaceful joys beguiled my infant hours; 
These simple scenes demand a tuneful lay, 

Assist, O Muse, with all thine artless powers. 

Hail, dear abode ! I love the well known place, 
Where time, methinks, on downy pinions flew ; 

Here rolling years, with pensive thought I trace, 
For here was peace, here happiness I knew. 

Beneath that elm, which spreads its rural shade 
In native grandeur o'er the smiling plain, 

My early vows to truthful Love I paid. 

Nor knew of care, nor thought of future pain. 



164 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

See yonder stream, whose gentle current flows, 
Calm and secure from every threatening 
storm, — 
Pure as that stream are joys which youth be- 
stows. 
No grief disturbs, and each fond hope is 
warm. 

Ye quiet scenes of sweet and hallowed peace ! 

Your halcyon hours I view with pleasing pain ; 
They quickly flew, and saw my joys increase. 

For then Contentment owned its happy reign. 
Fled are those hours — those hours to me so 

dear ; 
And nought is left but memory and a tear. 

1814. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 165 



TWENTY-SECOND OF FEBRUARY. 

The Genius of Freedom to earth had descended ; 
The steeds were Apollo's, his wreath decked the 

car — 
With the laurelled tiara the cypress was blended, 
No temple was reared, alid no votary was there. 

She smiled ! then burst the glorious dawn ; 

She spake ! and Washington was born ; 
The avenger of Freedom, the pride of the world. 

Shouts of triumph rend the skies, 

Paeans of joy to heaven arise. 
For Oppression and Slavery to darkness are 
hurled, 



166 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Hail to the dawn of Columbia's glory, 
That ushered to being her favorite son ; 
Infants and youth, with veterans hoary, 
Exult in the freedom his valor has won ! 
The star of glory left its sphere, 
And shone with radiant lustre here. 
On the fields where they fought, on the heights 
where they bled. 
On land and on ocean, 
In war's dire commotion. 
The bright star of Freedom to victory led. 

Shade of the Hero ! with radiance surrounded. 
From regions of glory thy spirit looks down. 
And joyful beholds the oppressor confounded, 
Columbia triumphant, the first in renown. 
Her canvass whitens distant seas, 
Her banners float on every breeze ; 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 167 

" The star-spangled banner " that proudly shall 
wave. 

This standard unfurled 

Displays to the world 
The ensign of Freedom, or shroud of the brave. 

The trident of Neptune, from Britain removed, 
Is wielded by every American tar ; 
Our sailors, undaunted, a bulwark have proved 
In peace ; and most terrible, banded for war. 

With bold majestic strides 

Our gallant navy rides ; 
With laurels unfading — they 're victory's spoil ! 

The clarion no more 

Awakes on our shore ; 
The olive of peace deeply strikes in our soil. 



168 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Hail to the dawn of Columbia's glory ! 
That ushered to being her favorite son; — 
Infants and youth, with veterans hoary, 
Exult in the freedom his valor has won. 
Sons of Columbia, raise the song ; 
Let heaven with earth the strains prolong. 
While the laurels that flourish on Liberty's 
shore, 
To ages proclaim 
Our Washington's fame. 
This day shall be hallowed till time is no more ! 

1818. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAJV. 169 



TO THE BIBLE. 

O Book ! that bright and burning Day, 

To which all other days are dim, 
With those who kneel in white array, 

Cherub and saint and seraphim, 
With those who testify for truth, 

Battlers for God with rebel sin. 
Shining in their immortal youth. 

All light without and light within — 
That Day shalt thou, a witness stand. 
Awful and swift, at Christ's right hand. 



170 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Against the hours of gross neglect 

Suffered o'er thee to idly pass, 
When thou wast cheated of respect 

Given freely to the mirrowing glass, — 
When Fashion sought thee not with half 

The earnest zeal and love it gave 
The revel ; when the trifling laugh 

Did conscience nerve, thy threats to brave ; 
And Beauty said thy page of gloom 
Produced no flower of pleasant bloom. 



Ah ! heard she not thy sacred voice, 
When from the closet's corner thou 

Bad' St her in folly's dream rejoice, 
And bathe in every pleasure now. 

As one not to reflection woke ; 
Yet bade her too remember well, 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 171 

That taking thus sin's willing yoke 

On earth, 't would gird thy neck in hell ; 
And God in judgment all would bring, 
Thou saidst, for every secret thing ? 



Him too, engaged in hoarding pelf, 

Whose thoughts on schemes of grasping ran, 
Thou, from thy silent, dusty shelf 

Didst sometimes warn, " Remember man ! 
Bethink thee of thy narrow bed, 

Lit only by the reptile's light. 
Where thou must quickly lay thy head, — 

Then whom shall this, thy wealth, delight? " 
He answered not, but hated thee 
The more for thy fidelity. 



172 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

A father's holy counsel given, 

A mother's often bended knee, 
Both now before the throne of heaven — 

That he should love and ponder thee, 
Forgotten ; — in his desert hour 

Where for consoling shall he look ? 
Tremendous is thy wakened power, 

Eternal, wondrous, hated Book ! 
Would that the sons of men were wise 
To seek the treasure of the skies. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 173 



THE DEATH-BED. 

She had his holy influence felt, 
Who woos v/ith strong, yet gentle call ; 

And, yielding, to her Lord had knelt. 
And freely, gladly, given him all. 

So deemed she, and so others deemed ; 

The world believed her as she seemed. 

Yet not to self was self revealed ; 

Deceived even there, where Christians pray. 
Where mercy oft its own hath sealed. 

Not in the open face of day, — 
Her wanderings had beginning where 
Arose the formal, closet prayer. 



174 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

She lost her love — a grievous loss ! 

Though reckoned as of small account 
By lukewarm followers of the cross, 

Who seek not, prize not Tabor's mount. 
Who from its wondrous glories turn 
To where earth's little cressets burn. 

Yet, sometimes, troubled conscience woke ; 

She more than doubted all was wrong ; 
Where was the joy she knew, when broke 

Light on her darkness ? Where the song, 
When she salvation's highway trod, 
A pilgrim-maid, betrothed to God ? 

Why shunned she thus the speech of those 
Who talked of Christ, and loved the theme? 

Why left she thus the Rock, whence flows 
Answer in one perpetual stream ? 

Where sisters in their circle meet, 

And hearts are mingled at his feet. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 175 

O'er wanderings which no worldling knew, 
And by the Saviour's friends unseen, 

She, blinded and presumptuous threw 
The self-deceiver's failing screen. 

From her own heart her heart to hide, 

She, leaving God, conferred with Pride. 

And yet no overt act of sin, 

To scandalize the church, was there ; 
She wore the semblance that could win 

Others, and to herself was fair. 
Mild, modest, courteous, free from strife, 
Of good report, of blameless life. 

She sat, as thousands sit, to hear 

The Sabbath's gospel-trumpet blown ; 

Like thousands, she that feast drew near, 
Spread only for the Saviour's own. 

And who might judge? — who dare to say 

She was not truly sealed as they ? 



176 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

She lived, as thou, false one, dost live ; 

Had hopes as strong, as bright, as thine; 
Such evidence, as thou canst give, 

Was hers of claim to life divine ; 
Alternate joys, alternate tears, 
Ecstatic visions, shadowy fears. 

Till that " detector of the heart," 

A DEATH-BED, Came ! — They looked to see 

Hovi^ a young Christian might depart, 
Hovi^ put on immortality. 

They gathered round to mark the power 

Of Faith, in nature's trial-hour. 

Mysterious Faith, which bids the old 
Tread that dark vale without alarm ; 

And to the youngest of the fold 

Shows the kind Shepherd's helping arm, 

Who leads the lambs a gentle way, 

Where flowerets bloom and waters play. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 177 

How could she hail that blessed state, 
Which claimed no earnest, constant care? 

How could firm Faith a death-bed wait, 
Where Love stood not attendant there, 

Ready at the first word to fly. 

And bear its precious charge on high ? 

What saw they 1 — fear, beyond the fear, 
Which those who lean on Christ should know, 

Who have his promise to be near 
In Jordan's deepest overflow; 

Who at the grave of victory sing; 

Who ask for death the monster's sting. 

What heard they ? — sounds which never fall 
From lips by sweet forgiveness prest, 

When saints on Jesus faltering call. 
And sleep in Jesus, truly blest ; 

When near them are the convoy-band. 

And glory from the *' better land." 
12 



178 POEMS AJMD LYRICKS, 

Despair gave meaning to those eyes, 
Whose lustre mocked the film of death ; 

Despair gave terror to those cries, 

Which struggled with the struggling breath ; 
" O God ! O God ! art thou so nigh ? 

I cannot ! — no, I WILL NOT DIE ! " 

She died — she died so poor, who yet 
Had hopes, like thine, of treasure stored ; 

She died — she, starving, died, who met. 
Like thee, with Christ around his board. 

Stand thy best hopes on surer ground ? 

Hast thou, in truth, a Saviour found? 



BY WILLIAil B. T-\PPAN. 179 



I WALKED IN PORTSMOUTH. 

I WALKED in Portsmouth ; 't was the place 
Of boyhood, and though changed its face, 
Though to the grave had journeyed down 
The fathers of that ancient town ; 

Though of its thousands very few 
Returned my greeting, whom I knew, 
And I was stranger to the door, 
That sheltered once my only store ; 

Yet was it pleasant, and 't was sad ; 
I sorrowed straight, and straight was glad ; 
For those, who long had ceased to be 
On earth, came back and walked with me. 



180 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

They looked the same ; and yet they seemed 
More spiritual — as I have dreamed 
Angels may seem ; and in their eyes 
Was something of the starry skies. 

They smiled on me ; but sadly smiled ; 
As pitying the imprisoned child 
Yet doomed for heavy days to groan, 
In folly's desert left alone. 

I knew them ! — one of matron grace ; 
One had sweet girlhood in her face ; 
Heirs of perennial beauty, they, 
Gained when earth's beauty passed away. 

And one was there of reverend mien. 
Our pastor, when with mortals seen ; 
Another — my dull heart waxed warm : 
I strove to clasp my father's form. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 181 

I strove to ask him, why these years 
He 'd left me to my weary tears ; 
'O father, I 've had need of thee, 
I 've missed a hand to strengthen me." 

Wings sparkled — they were gone — the air 
Grew redolent ; 't was fragrance there. 
The gales of Beulah sighed along. 
And breathed aroma out in song. 

I may not say what string was swept ; 
'T was tenderness, 't was love — I wept 
To join them. O my soul, how blest 
To flee away and be at rest ! 

The memory of the righteous lives ; 
Their name perpetual odor gives ; 
They 're here — and heaven about is spread, 
When with us are the precious Dead. 

1842. 



182 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



THE MISSION SHIP, 

ON HER WAY TO THE SANDWICH ISLANDS. 

Softly blow, ye favoring breezes ! 
Winds of heaven ! propitious smile ; - 
Speed the tall ship o'er the ocean 
Safely to her destined isle. 

Now she rides the bounding billow. 
Proudly urging on her way : 
He, who holds the storm is with her, 
God, the Missionary's stay. 

Fathers ! faint not, those departing 
To a friendless heathen shore, 
Go to toil mid scenes of peril. 
Where the Spirit goes before. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 183 

Mothers ! weep not, these, your offspring 
Bound to yonder pagan coast — 
Go to reap the martyr's laurel, 
Go to seek the poor and lost. 

Who are these that haste to greet thee, 
King of men ! in gathering crowds ? 
Who are these that fly to meet thee, 
Rapidly as summer's clouds? 

Lo, the ships of Tarshish, bearing 
Nobler freight than Ophir saw. 
Thither, where the isles are waiting — 
Waiting the Messiah's law. 

Roll, Pacific, roll thy billows, 
Proudly to the whispering wind ; 
On thy bosom floats a treasure, 
Richer than remotest Ind : — 



184 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Waft it quickly, O, ye breezes ! 
Winds of heaven, propitious smile! 
Speed the tall ship o'er the ocean, 
Safely to her destined isle. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 185 



SONG OF THE DELIVERED. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! we 've burst the chain ; 

O God ! how long it bound us ! 
We run ! we leap ! O God, again 

Thy light, thy air surround us. 
From midnight's dungeon-depths brought out, 

We hail hope's rising star ; 
Ho, comrades ! give the hearty shout. 

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! 

The world has kissed the tyrant's throne, 

The Beast ! the Man of Sin ! 
" Legion ! " " Apollyon ! " * better known 

As Brandy, Beer, or Gin ! 

• The title Apollyon, Abaddon, the destroyer, the 
name ascribed to the angel of the abyss ; king and 
head of the apocalyptic locusts, may well be applied to 
Prince Alcohol, emphatically "The Destroyer." 



186 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Roused up at Reason's clarion cry, 

We go to holy war, 
To slay the dragon, or to die ! 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! there 's joy within, 

Where all before was wo ; 
And sunk is passion's dreadful din. 

And crushed for aye 's the foe. 
Yet one charge more in glorious strife, 

Stout hearts ! to end the war ; 
'T is done — our spoils, the babes ! the wife ! 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 



Debased by drink, we 'd lost the sign 
Of manhood, God imprest, 

The open face, the look divine — 
To show what He had blest. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 187 

Behold ! erect ! with honest brow, 

Restored to Nature's law — 
We 're men ! we 're men ! heaven knows us now : 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 



Of ten, all cleansed, did one return 

To bless the healing hour 1 
All of our rescued thousands burn 

To praise redeeming power. 
Come ! bless God now ! and what for us 

He 's done — so reads the law — 
We 'll do for others, and the curse 

Root out — hurrah ! hurrah I 



Tom Moore may drug the golden cup 
With costly pearls, that shine 

Bright as his face ! and drink them up 
Dissolved in rosy wine ; 



188 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

In undiluted streams we dip 
Our crystal glasses — nor 

Refuse the pledge will Woman's lip 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! we 've burst the chain ; 

O God ! how long it bound us ! 
We run ! we leap ! O God, again 

Thy light, thy air surround us. 
From midnight's dungeon-depths brought out, 

We hail hope's rising star ; 
Ho, comrades I give the hearty shout. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 

1841. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 189 



TO THE STEAMSHIP PRESIDENT * 

Proud barque! we freighted thee with gold; 

Our choicest gems we gave to thee ; 
Thou hadst our all ; — to have and hold, 

And bear in safety o'er the sea. 
Art thou unfaithful to the trust 1 
Wilt thou fulfil 't ? — Be just ! be just ! 



* This noble vessel left New York, in the spring of 
1841, with passengers and freight for Liverpool, and 
was heard of no more. 



190 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

We left our treasures with regret ; 

We counted them, for they were dear; 
Some laughed, as care they would forget, 

And some in sadness dropt the tear. 
The veriest miser of us knew 
His hoards were safe, for thou wert true- 

Hadst thou not often borne for us 

Rich household gifts of price unknown ? 

And didst thou ever wrongly thus 

Keep back, what was not all thine own 1 

O who mistrusted ! or would shun 

Thy faithless care ! — not one ! not one ! 

We saw thee leave us in thy pride ; 

And many a prayer pursued thy track, 
That He, who ebbs and floods the tide. 

And chains the sea, would bring thee back. 
Yet not one bosom harbored doubt 
Of her return, that thus went out 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 191 

Nay ! there is one * who doubts not now ! 

She fondly thinks thee just and true ; 
In dreams she sees thy march, as thou 

All proudly cleav'st thy path of blue ! 
Man deems thou dost no longer roam, 
But Woman waits to hail thee home. 

We trusted God, yet trusted much 
Thy noble frame of steel and oak ; 

Strong as thy mates, we said that such 
Could brave the tempest's fiercest stroke; 

Nor pitch too deeply down, nor reel, 

Though timbers shivered to the keel. 



* The wife of one of the ill-fated passengers still 
believes, with all a woman's love and hope, that the 
President is safe, and that she shall soon behold again 
her husband. 



192 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

We trusted God, yet trusted too 
To science and the perfect skill, 

Which could a trackless way pursue, 
And make a distant port, at will. 

We trusted man, well tried of old ; 

We trusted thee — give back our gold ! 

Give back the light of friendship's day ; 

The hearts that bound us in their spell ; 
We parted not with these for aye! 

We had not said a last " farewell ! " 
Give back, O Journeyer of the Sea, 
Our own, and blessings be on thee. 

In vain, in vain, to earnest cry 

Of widow and of fatherless. 
The sullen winds bring no reply ; 

Though for the tidings, we would bless 
The sullen winds, the cruel sea. 
If tidings they would give of thee. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAP? AN. 193 

In vain, in vain ! no pitying friend 
Beheld thee climb the dreadful wave, 

And from that altitude descend 
To an unfathomable grave. 

Yet thou wast faithful, as we knew, 

For with thy trust thou 'st perished too ! 

1841. 



13 



194 POEMS ANV LYRICKS, 



LINES, 

on receiving from the author a copy of 
Scenes in the Holy Land. 

'' Scenes in the Holy Land ! " — and I have 

walked 
In Palestine ; breathed Syria's air, and talked 
With elder Hebrews ; — and I have drawn near 
Apostles, yea, my Lord, without a fear ! 
The glory seen that over Bethlehem hung ; 
The anthem heard that shining angels sung ; 
And star-led with the Shepherds to a stall, 
An Infant found the Monarch, Sire of All : 
Yea, seen him, who a little one became. 
That little ones may lisp and love his Name; 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 195 

In riper years beheld him children bless, 

Of such his kingdom ; sickness seen, Distress, 

And Death, the victor, vanquished, from him 

fly; 
Seen him rebuke the storm — walk waters, and 

with eye 
Of sorrow bent on lost Jerusalem, 
Discern her miseries and weep o'er them ; 
Beheld him at the Supper — sinful me ! 
Seen tears of God bedew Gethsemane ; 
Seen him, a felon, led to Pilate's hall, — - 
Die on the Roman Cross — earth wrapt in pall 
Of pitying Darkness; — marked him from the 

tomb 
Rise, and bid o'er it Resurrection bloom. 
Thanks for such '' Scenes" ! — Not idly have I 

scanned 
That blessed progress "in the Holy Land." 



196 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

The busy world awhile has stept aside, 
Faith seems exalted, and depressed my pride. 
Desires flame up, like Him, in grace to shine ; 
Where he has placed his footprint I would mine. 
I would be holy, harmless, undefiled ; — 
Like him, the perfect Man, like him, the spot- 
less Child. 



BY WILUAM B. TAPPAN. 197 



A PSALM OF REMEMBRANCE. 

Child ! remember thy Creator, 

While thy thought is young and new ; 

Yield thy odor, morning blossom ! 
While 't is fragrant with the dew. 

Ever blest the early offering, 

Years are doubtful. Childhood true. 

Youth ! remember thy Creator, 

Ere shall come the evil day, 

When thy dreamy joys forever 

Will, like dreams, have past away , 
"And in them I have no pleasure," 
Worn and weary, thou shalt say, 



198 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Man ! remember thy Creator, 
Now in this thy vigorous time ; 

Give thy strength to thy Redeemer, 
Ere in weakness sinks thy prime ; 

Ere thy sun, below meridian, 
Journeys to another clime. 

Age ! remember thy Creator, — 
Spring and Summer, Autumn, fled- 

Lo, the locks of grisly Winter, 
Streaming tokens o'er thy head. 

Speak to thee in silent message. 
Wailing, warning of the dead. 

Beauty ! think of thy Creator ; 

Witching as thy charms may be, 
They are fleeting ; — there 's a reptile 

Waiting in the grave for thee. 
Think of Him who gives the beauty 

Blooming for eternity. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 199 

Wealth ! O think of thy Creator ; 

Why should riches be a screen, 
Through which God, the willing Giver, 

By the ingrate is not seen ? 
Think of Him, before whose treasures. 

Worlds on worlds up-piled are mean. 

Penury ! think of thy Creator ; 

None more reason has than thou ; 
If the wanton world is frowning, 

If thou must unaided bow, 
Think of Friendship that 's unfailing ; 

Think of Help that's ready now. 

Debtor ! in a Christian prison, 

Felon ! to the scaffold doomed. 
Weary wanderer ! vile transgressor ! 

In sin's sepulchre entombed — 
Hopeless drunkard ! soul in darkness ! 

Mind ! by heavenly light illumed, 



200 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Freeman ! boasting of the purchase 

By thy noble fathers made, — 
Wretched slave ! the freeman's chattel, 

Soul and sinews formed for trade — 
Thou ! who hast from virtue wandered, 

Thou ! whose footsteps never strayed ; 

Sailor ! on the treacherous ocean, 
Watching wind or boding clouds ; 

O remember thy Creator's 

Voice is piping in the shrouds. 

Fainting pilgrim in the desert. 
Solitary, or in crowds — 

Worldling! Christian! Doubtful! Thoughtful! 

Man of hope and man of none ; 
Careless, Fearful, Timid, Daring; 

Thou of friends, and thou alone — 
Gathered out of Egypt's darkness ; 

Thou, whose star has ever shone ; 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 201 

Taught from being's dawn how only 

Thou mayst truly, safely walk ; 
Left, from birth, to struggle sorely 

With the clogs that spirit balk ; 
Never taught of thy Creator, 

Taught Him by thy mother's talk ; 

Household ! Hamlet ! Country ! City ! 

Honor, Intellect, and Sex; 
Kingdom ! Dukedom ! Province ! Empire ! 

Crowned, or crushed, whom cares perplex ; 
Patient, Restless, Joyous, Mourner, 

Whom life's weary sorrows vex ; 

Citizen ! or Stranger ! Moslem ! 

Sultan ! brother of the sun ; 
Arab! Jew, or Gentile — humble 

Thee before the Mighty One ! 
Japanese, and China man ! 

Greenlander, and Thug, undone, 



202 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Thou, with lease of life before thee, 
As thou fondly deem'st, and thou, 

Faltering in the final struggle, — 
Death's cold signet on thy brow; 

Sickly! Healthy! Living! Dying! 
On the mount, or in the slough. 

Earth ! remember thy Creator ; 

Systems ! as ye haste along ; 
Hell ! that moveless is forever ; — 

Yea, thy fires to him belong — 
Him, in dreadful wail, remember ! 

Heaven ! remember Him in sonor. 

Thou that writest ! Thou that readest ! 

Idler ! Toiler ! Quick ! or Slow ! 
Thou that preachest ! thou that hearest ! 

This, the only lesson know : 
Now, remembering thy Creator, 

Shun the lost, forgetful! s wo ! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 203 



WILLIAM L ADD* — NAPOLEON BONA- 
PARTE. 

This is thy grave. I 'd rather sleep 
Thus, with a guardian God alone, 

Than helmed by ranks of cowering men, 
To occupy Napoleon's throne. 

This is thy grave. Such resting place 
Be mine, wet with the earnest tear, 

Rather than, heaped with gems and crowns, 
The monarch-murderer's guilty bier. 



* The distinguished Advocate of Peace. 



204 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

This is thy grave. I 'd choose the sigh, 
Which wakens at thy honored Name, 

Before the shouts that thundered round 
The living, lost Napoleon's fame. 

This is thy grave. Such funeral step 
I 'd choose, for me, of honest men, 

Before the kingly pomp that bore 
The dead Napoleon home again. 

This is thy grave. When he 's forgot, 
Or only named as " Anger's rod," 

Thou 'It live in Virtue's heraldry. 

Thy title, " Friend of Man and God." 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 205 



STANZAS.* 

Perhaps it is an idle thought, 
Yet if I could be free 
From stain ; nor needed to be bought 
By blood, poured out for me ; — 



* On Sabbath morning, soon after the commence- 
ment of the forenoon discourse, a beautiful canary bird 
made its appearance in the Rev. Mr. B.'s church, and 
continued flying about during the forenoon and after- 
noon services. The little songster would startle the 
audience with an occasional chirp, as if in response to 
the eloquent passages of the sermons. This pretty in- 
cident brought to our mind the thought, that if men 



206 POEMS AND LTRICKS, 

No house of prayer, no welcome news 
Of pardon for my sin, — 
Would I such stale of being choose 
To that I now am in ? 



To see, without sweet Mercy's ray, 
The Godhead shine but dim ; 
Like Adam, when in '' cool of day," 
The Lord God talked with him ; 
Not know how in the cold dark heart 
Love's flames leap up and live. 
When Jesus bids despair depart, 
And says, " I thee forgive ! " 

were innocent and happy as this little winged visitor, 
they would need no meeting-houses, no Gospel, and 
no Saviour. — Hartford Patriot. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 207 

Not drop the sad, delicious tear 

Which from repentance springs ? 

To hear of Calvary, as I hear 

Of other common things? 

To see no blessed bounty spread 

For me, a fainting guest — 

No cheering wine, no living bread, 

By my kind Master blest ? 



To lose that bliss, not found in heaven, 

That song no angel knows — 

The secret bliss of sin forgiven, — 

The happy song which flows, 

When heart and hand and soul and voice 

Essay each tuneful chord, 

And earth seems hastening to rejoice, 

And with me praise the Lord? 



208 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

To weep in Sorrow's bitter night, 

As I am made to weep — 

Nor deem that One, in robes of light, 

Doth with me vigils keep 1 

To lay in death my aching head, 

With no assurance there. 

That Jesus makes such dying bed 

His own peculiar care? 



To wear, above, a harp and crown. 

Yet never thanks repeat? 

Yea, never, never cast them down 

At my Redeemer's feet ? 

To bathe my soul in splendors bright, 

Yet miss the starry gem, 

To which heaven owes its fairest light" 

My Saviour's diadem? 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 209 

And where the thousand thousands cry, 

Dominions, thrones, degrees — 

In one majestic harmony. 

Even as " the sound of seas," 

" Worthy the Lamb ! " — to hear no hymn 

His attributes proclaim, 

Nor vie with quiring Seraphim 

In honors to his Name ; — 



It is, indeed, an " idle thought ; " 

I would not be made free. 

Though worthless, wandering, vile — from aught, 

My God prepares for me. 

Content — yea more, I choose that state 

Which doth his plan fulfil ; 

And only pray that I may wait 

And do his perfect will. 

14 



210 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



ENTERING IN AT THE CELESTIAL 
GATE.* 

Would I were with them ! — they are free 
From all the cares they knew below ; 
And strangers to the strifes that we 
Encounter in this vale of wo. 
From storms of sorrow and of pain 
Forever are they garnered in, 
Secure from sad defilement's stain, 
The mildew and the blight of sin. 

* <' Now just as the Gates were opened to let in the 
Men, I looked in after them, and behold, the City shone 
like the sun ; the streets also were paved with gold ; 
and in them walked many men with crowns upon their 
heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps to sing 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 211 

Would I were with them ! — they embrace 
The loved ones, lost, long years before ; 
What joy to gaze upon the face 
That never shall be absent more ! 
There friends unite who parted here, 
On death's cold margin, O how sadly! 
Forgotten is the sigh or tear. 
Their hearts are leaping, O how gladly ! 

Would I were with them ! — they behold 
Their Saviour, glorious and divine ; 
They touch the cups of shining gold. 
And in his kingdom drink new wine. 

praises withal." — " There were also of them that had 
wings ; and they answered one another without in- 
termission, saying, ' Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord.' 
And after that they shut up the Gates ; which, when 
I had seen, I wished myself among them." — Pilgrim s 
Progress. 



212 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

How flash, like gems, their brilliant lyres 
Along the sparkling walls of heaven. 
When, from his radiance catching fires, 
The song of songs to Christ is given ! 

Would I were with them ! — while without 

Are sighs and weeping, they, within. 

For very joy and gladness shout, 

And well they may, who 're free from sin. 

O this, indeed, is heaven above ; 

This fills the bliss of every soul — 

To grow in holiness and love, 

As age on age shall ceaseless roll. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 213 



THE SOLEMN PETITION OF JOHN 
SMITH;* 

TO THE GENERAL COURT OF MASSACHUSETTS, 
HUMBLY SHOWETH: 

That the marrow and the pith 
Of his grievance is, John Smith, 
Being cognomen in use, 
Is exposed to great abuse. 

* From the Boston Morning Post, January 17, 1842. 
"■ In the House of Representatives, on Saturday, the 
following petition was duly presented and referred. 

" ' To the Honorable Senate and House of Represen- 
tatives, assembled — 

*' ' Whereas, my son is called John Smith, Jr., and 



214 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Such a number in our town, 
Farmer, trader, cobler, clown. 
Wear it, makes it inconvenient ; — 
Briefly, therefore, his intent, 
From your Body, is redress 
To implore for this distress. 
Your petitioner, so please ye, — 
Not designing long to tease ye, 
Knowing legislator's time is 
Very precious ; though his rhyme is 
Rather '' lengthy " — is in trouble ; 
Being somewhat more than double ; 

there are a number of persons in town who bear the 
same name, which makes it quite inconvenient. There- 
fore, I would pray that your Honorable Body would 
suffer him to take the name of John Wesley Smith, 
instead of John Smith, Jr. ; and as in duty bound will 
ever pray 

* John Smith.' " 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 215 

Filling, true as he respects ye, 
Fifty pages of Direct'ry. 
More than all, and here's the evil, 
Hath a strapping son, as civil. 
Likely, well-to-do a lad. 
As should make a father glad. 
By ill luck he '5 John Smith, too ; 
" Junior " tacked on, it is true. 
Yet that does not greatly help it, 
Every puppy tries to yelp it. 
John Smith Juniors hourly greet 
John Smith Juniors in the street. 
Your petitioner's heart is breaking — 
He 's a father ! — and a taking 
Awful bad the Ma'am is in ; 
Not to help her would be sin. 
Please your Body, deuce is in 't, 
That his name, in daily print, 
Showeth to disparagement ; 



216 POEMS AND LYUICKS, 

All conceivable ill brewing, 
Every sort of mischief doing, 
John Smith now in county prison, 
Now a Jack upon the mizen, 
Batchelor to-day — to-morrow 
With nine children, to his sorrow. 
All professions, every trade 
Claiming still his ready aid. 
At a stall, quack nostrums vending, 
Flaws in musty parchments mending, 
Holding forth with pulpit thump, 
Caucusing on western stump. 
Drawing phrenologic chart, 
Tumbling out of drayman's cart. 
Writing novels, like Sir Walter, 
Candidate for gallows-halter. 
Jockey, betting on his nag. 
Deacon, handing round the bag. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 217 

Quoted for connubial bliss, 

Snatching the forbidden kiss, 

Pattern to all married life, 

Choking nigh to death his wife, 

Never known to mingle drink. 

Picked up drunk from kennel sink, 

Peace between his neighbors making, 

Caged for brawls and window-breaking ; 

Charitable, very, — curst 

Of all misers as the worst, 

Of the women dreadful 'fraid is, 

Rude and saucy to the ladies. 

All too young his teens to fill, 

Sole survivor Bunker Hill, 

Published, shortly to be wed. 

Solemnly announced as dead. 

Time would fail to tell your worships, 

Barns don't burn in quiet, nor ships, 



218 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Well insured, go down at sea, 
Theft or suicide, but he 
Has a finger in the pie ; — 
Every Charley tips the sly 
Wink, as if forsooth to say 
" We have met before to day ; " 
Every loafer claims acquaintance, 
Every pauper asks a maint'nance. 
Your petitioner, to his shame must 
Still be greeted by this name curst. 
But, kind legislators ! spare 
John Smith Senior's son and heir. 
Let it please the General Court, 
That his boy may 'scape such sport, 
By the adding of a letter, 
To his middle, or much better, 
By a name of goodly sound, 
Filling up, complete and round. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 219 

Any one that 's serious, proper, 
That to witlings may be stopper. 
And as your petitioner ''Wesley" 
Has been reading lately, bless ye — 
Why not call him Wesley ? John 
Wesley Smith ? — and father, son, 
And all the little Smiths will pray, 
Ye may flourish many a day, 
In virtues, honors, pleasures, health — 
God save the Commonwealth ! 

John Smith. 



220 POEMS AND LYRICKS- 



DIRGE FOR HARRISON, 

Sung at Newton, on the day of the National Fast, 
14th May, 1841, in commemoration of the death of 
President Harrison. 

Given is to earth its treasure ; 

Relics ! slumber in the dust ; 
Yielded is to God the spirit, — 

Spirit ! mingle with the Just. 

"Earth to earth" — if this were only 
Wailing in our hymns of wo, 
God, what darkness thy creation, 
Soulless, hopeless, lost, would know ! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 221 

In that cry, in yonder palace, 

Spirit unto spirit calls ; 
See ! the Reaper lays the Mighty, — 

Yet the body only falls. 

Not a city, not a province, 

'T is a nation hears the rod ; 
Awful is the lesson taught us : — 

O Appointer ! Thou art God ! 

Humbled at the throne of Heaven, 

Whose rebuke a people feel — 
Let the tear for sin be Sfiven, 

Where, to-day, our millions kneel. 

Warrior! Chieftain! Statesman! Ruler! 

Honors heaped upon thy brow 

Filled, Ambition's golden chalice — 

What are these ! and what art thou ! 



222 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Father ! Brother ! Patriot ! Christian ! 

Titles graven on the heart, — 
These are names by which we know thee, 

These and thou can never part. 

Given is to earth its treasure ; 

Relics ! slumber in the dust ; 
Yielded is to God the spirit, — 

Spirit ! mingle with the Just. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 223 



THE GREATEST HONOR. 

To waken Mind by skilful touch ; 
To call up Mind's sequestered light, 
And bid it shine for God, is much ; 
And asks for Mind's collected might. 

To find the spot within the heart, 
Where dwells contrition's pearly tear ; 
And by the Spirit's holy art, 
To see it flow in sorrow here ; 

To quicken thoughts that slumbered long, 
And bid them spread an eagle's wing, 
And gain the fields of flower and song, 
Where thoughts yield sweets without a sting; 



224 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

To follow him who loves to roam 
In ways by folly only trod ; 
And bring the wanderer back to home, 
The rebel outcast to his God ; 

Is highest joy. — To better thought 
It has an honor greater far 
Than thrones have ever seized, or bought, 
Than clusters round their proudest Czar. 

Earth knowledge has of real bliss ; 
"Heaven lies about" the spirit then ; 
Nay ! Heaven can have no joy like this, 
To plead for Christ with erring men. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 225 



THE SCAPE GOAT.* 

Away to the desert the Scape Goat flies ; 
On him the sin of the people lies ; 
Confession is made with the laying of hands, 
And he bears the transgression to desolate lands. 



* " And Aaron shall lay both his hands upon the 
head of the live goat, and confess over him all the in- 
iquities of the children of Israel, and all their trans- 
gressions in all their sins, putting them upon the head 
of the goat, and shall send him away by the hand of a 
fit man into the wilderness ; and the goat shall bear 
upon him all their iniquities into a land not inhabited." 
Leviticus, xvi. 21, 22. 
15 



226 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

To desolate lands, with an errand of woes, 
And a curse for his burden, the fugitive goes ; 
And none may stay him while on his path — 
The heavily-prest with Jehovah's wrath. 

Now Israel! be glad; — let the timbrel and song 
Through thy tents the thank offering of music 

prolong ; 
From sin and transgression and bale thou art 

free, 
Thy God from the cherubs communeth with thee. 

'T is past I and the altar no longer is red 
With blood, or with flame of the sacrifice fed ; 
The Scape Goat no longer with burden of woes, 
And the curse due for sin to the wilderness goes. 

And where are the sinning nations now ? 

Do earth's kingdoms no more to idolatry bow ? 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 227 

Transgression and crime, are they found not 

with us 1 
And wJw shall bear off the burden of curse 1 

No Aaron is here with the laying of hands 
On the goat, that conveys to desolate lands 
The guilt of the people, without and within, 
To leave them released from the thraldom of sin. 

Did Israel return to his folly again ? 

Type, symbol, and substance — for him were 

they vain ? 
Where shall the wild Gentile appear in his pride, 
When the olive of God even withered and died ? 

O Priest of Melchisedek ! only to Thee 
Appealing he looks — for Thou only canst free. 
Not a family, tribe, not a nation alone — 
For a WORLD that has wandered thy blood can 
atone. 



228 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

In the Garden on Thee all its guilt that had 

past, 
And all that the future uncounted could cast, 
Was confessed, when the hands of Infinite Power 
Were laid on the Infinite in agony's hour. 

On the Cross, Thou didst take it, and bear it 
away 

To lands, where dark Death and Corruption 
have sway, 

And though fanned, in their triumph, by arro- 
gant wing. 

Thou saw'st not their reign, and thou knew'st 
not their sting. 

Now, now, to that Cross, in my sorrow, I fly, 
Assured by the mercy that beams from thine eye. 
That from sin, by thy suffering, forever made 

free, 
I 'm safe, Blessed Sacrifice ! only with Thee. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 229 



STANZAS. 

'T IS strange, that I should plant or build, 
Or schemes of busy pleasure plan ; 

So simple and so all unskilled 
In what concerns my span ; 

Uncertain whether my next breath 

May not be lost in death. 

*T is strange, that I so lightly go 

Where slumber doth the senses steep ; — 

What if, all unaware, the foe 
Steal on my sleep ; 

And from soft rest and visions bland 

I journey to the spirit-land? 



230 POEMS AND LYEICKS, 

*T is Strange, that in the crowded mart 
I do not Death, the toiler, see ; 

None busier in his proper part, 
More faithful none, than he. 

Out of these thousands, what if I 

Am bid to shut up shop, and die ? 

*T is strange, that at the bed of pain, 
Where some poor sufferer sinks away — 

And soul, soon to be free again, 
Peeps from its cage of clay — 

I stand, nor timely lesson learn, 

That I must go, and not return. 

'T is strange, that when my precious one, 
A cherub, took him wings and fled, 

I only deemed my little son 
Was with the early dead — 

Nor looked where sinless infants bow, 

Nor knew he was an angel now. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN- 231 

'T is Strange, where grasses thickly wave 
Above the churchyard's narrow beds, 

As thoughtfully I scan each grave, 
And envy these unaching heads, 

Hope flies not to a happier shore, 

Where I shall grieve and sin no more. 

'T is strange, that mortals act awhile 
Such meagre parts in every age, 

And strut their hour, and weep, and smile, 
And wearied, quit the stage, — 

And still the drama hurries on ; 

O God, what prize is lost and won ! 



232 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



THE ELECT. 

Question. 
Elect of God ! and who is he ? 

What path by him is trod, 
Shut up to few — to all men free, 

Where throng the Elect of God ? 
Unriddle ye the maze, who can ; 

The mystery explore 
For me, a weary, wildered man, 

Who longs to find the door. 

Answer. 
Elect of God ! — he who repents ; 

Reforms, without, within; 
Who loathes all evil thoughts, intents, 

And every darling sin ; 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 233 

Hating his lusts and loving Christ, 

He unawares hath trod 
The happy path to peace unpriced ; 

He is Elect of God. 

Question. 
But what, if wandering far fiom home, 
A begscar in his wo — 

DO 

Hd chooses, though rebuked, to roam. 

As rebels love to go ; 
What if, sin-wrecked, and idly tost 

By every wind and wave, 
He joins the innumerable lost, 

Whose voyage is to the grave ? 

Answer. 
Still, if he turns, with suppliant knee. 

Though viler never trod 
This earth — by Him who stained the tree, 

That Man's Elect of God! 



234 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

And God will find him, though he dwell 
Where darkness hath its seat, — 

Will reach him, though the waves of hell 
Were surging at his feet. 

Question. 
Yet what, if, having tasted bliss 

Unspeakable, he goes 
Away from Christ, and with a kiss 

Betrays him to his foes? 
Is he, who takes the Bread and Wine, 

And takes the price of blood, 
Yea, gloats upon that silver's shine, 

Indeed, Elect of God ? 

Answer. 
Thou art the man ! — what hast thou done I 

Say, wretch, for which of all 
His gifts, thy treason, that hath won 

For thee such dreadful fall ? 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 235 

Yet turn thee ! turn thee ! Wondrous Love, 
Though thou the depths hast trod, 

If thou repent, will lift above 
Thy sin, the Elect of God. 



236 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



ENCHANTED GROUND.* 

We, travellers, find our homeward way 

By many a subtle foe beset ; 
We war with sin, and many a fray 

Must prove our trusty armor yet. 
Snares, trials, combats, as we go, 

We yet shall find, as we have found ; 
And these to us will surely show ' 

We still are on Enchanted Ground. 



* Christian. — " Do you not remember that one of 
the Shepherds bid us beware of the Enchanted 
Ground ? " — Pilgnrn's Progress. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 237 

Vexed with ourselves, how often we 

O'er indecision grieve, and sloth, — 
To Earth and Heaven we bow the knee, 

Yet feel we cannot worship both. 
We haste to duty ; then go back. 

Again to follow Pleasure's round ; 
And, with the thousands in her track, 

Discern we 're on Enchanted Ground. 



How bright the perfect pattern given 

By Him, who marked the narrow way ! 
May we not, creeping thus to Heaven, 

Walk as he walked ? — we know we may. 
And lo ! we leap — we run — we fly — 

We proudly spurn earth's scanty bound — 
Till, weary, falling from the sky. 

We kiss once more Enchanted Ground, 



238 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

A follower of the Cross behold — 

A young disciple pressing on ; 
How zealous, active, cheerful, bold! 

The " shining light " is almost won. 
But slumbering sins awake ; — a host 

Comes up with hostile show and sound ; 
Alas, is lovely Beulah's coast 

Approached through this Enchanted Ground ? 



Our Church, so lately shadowed o'er 

With wings of the Eternal Dove, — 
So rich in faith, yet asking more ; 

So honored, yet so full of love ; 
Our Church, that on her way erect. 

All-glorious moved, to Zion bound — 
Why droops the church we deemed elect ? 

Our church is on Enchanted Ground. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 239 

The Sabbath School — that little flock, 

Feeble or strong, as is the church — 
Once could the accuser's malice mock ; 

Once fearless ask the faithful search ; 
Why is this precious fold unsafe ? 

Why is the wolf within it found? 
O teacher, ne'er at conscience chafe, 

That says, thou 'rt on Enchanted Ground» 



The frequent season of delight. 

When saints looked up for promised aid ; 
Or when, in watches of the night. 

Each in his secret Bethel prayed ; 
The place where once those mothers met, 

And blessings for their children found ; 
Why, dreaming, do ye these forget? 

Be warned ! ye 're on Enchanted Ground. 



240 POEMS AND LYRICK3, 

O minister of Jesus ! thou 

Whose privilege it is to lead 
The thirsty where sweet waters flow, 

The hungry with true bread to feed — 
Should now thy hands drop helpless down, 

Because no Hur nor Aaron 's found? 
"Play thou the man," and win thy crown, 

Nor halt on this Enchanted Ground. 



Myself, where marchest thou to-day ? 

Myself, art thou as firm for God, 
As when, years past, this pilgrim way 

Thy eager steps delighted trod 1 
Is prayer as fervent, faith as strong ? 

Dost thou in labors blest abound ? 
To travellers true dost thou belong ? 

Or art thou on Enchanted Ground, 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 241 

Delaying, trifling, sleeping? Wake! 

Wake ! for the shadows of the night 
Are stealing on thee ; — rest forsake ; 

O sworded one, be up for fight. 
There's not a few that sleep or stray; 

Yet he who 's wakeful, watchful found, 
Will walk in light, although his way 

Lies through this dark Enchanted Ground. 



16 



242 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



ANNUAL CONCERT OF PRAYER 
FOR THE WORLD. 

Now up ! ye that have interest 
In heaven's holy love, — 
Ye that for Zion travail sore, 
Look to her help above. 
And up ! ye Christian men and true, 
And to the throne repair , 
And storm and take it in the bold 
" Conspiracy of prayer." 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 243 

Not for a single household Christ 

Calls out his ranks to day ; 

Not for a town or province ye 

Are marshalled up to pray. 

The trumpet is for mighty lands ; — 

And we have flag unfurled, 

And girded sword, by countless bands, 

In struggle for a world. 



And not alone, or few, are we ; 
From sultry Orient's shore, 
A cry has reached God's majesty 
Which rent the West before. 
And where Pacific's corals lie, 
From Smyrna and Japan, 
From London and Jerusalem, 
The cry goes up for man. 



244 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Not prayer and praise alone ! — your gifts 

Upon the altar lay ; 

Who gives not, cannot for a world 

Importunately pray. 

Give of abundance. Give ye, too, 

By poverty opprest ; 

Here, if at all, the widow's mite 

Hath honor o'er the rest. 



Up ! ye, that signs discern, in crowds ; 

There 's muttering in the air ; 

Up ! for the bow is on the clouds. 

The storm has past at prayer. 

And while the worldling asks for wealth, 

Ambition for its goal. 

We, at that open Mercy seat, 

Will wrestle for the soul. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 245 



AND THERE WAS NO MORE SEA.* 

Laughing Ocean imaore true 
Is of passions found in us, 
Never still his waves of blue, 
Laboring with the restless curse ; 
So is man ; though o'er his face 
God threw pleasant smiles, that he 
Might reflect his Maker's grace, — 
Man is restless as the Sea. 



Revelation, xxi. 1. 



246 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Sometimes ocean gaily danceth, 
Like a bridegroom seen of bride ; 
Reined and ruled, he sometimes pranceth, 
Like a war-horse, in his pride. 
Now he chafeth in his might ; 
High as Alps his terrors be; 
Wo to men, about whom night 
Gathers on the stormy Sea ! 



When I 'm vexed with crossing cares, 
When I 'm weary of the strife. 
Thought grown moody, listless prayers. 
Asking nothing for this life — 
Then I look beyond the graves, 
Where they rest, once sad like me, 
To a shore unswept by waves ; 
Calm, untroubled — no more Sea ! 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 247 

When this frame of wondrous skill 
Loses motion, life, and breath, 
And the hungry worm at will 
Banquets in the hall of Death, — 
Trouble over, passion fled. 
Sorrow's sources dry shall be ; 
All the spirit's tumults dead — 
Dead ! — there shall be no more Sea ! 



When this world of gorgeous show 
Shrouded is in dreadful gloom ; 
And the fiery tempests blow 
Round it, o'er it, urging doom, — 
Mountains melted, valleys fled, 
Ocean's channels dry shall be. 
Then to judgment wake the Dead — 
Dead ! — there shall be no more Sea ! 



248 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 



" MARY ! — RABBONI I " ♦ 

She turned her from the empty cell, 

Where late the Prince of Glory lay; 
A shadow on her spirit fell, — 
Her Lord was borne away. 
" If thou hast spoiled the tomb, 
And for its new-born light 
Hast left the pall of ancient gloom, 
O wanderer of the night — 
Tell me!" 

He looked into her earnest eyes, 

Where lately shone hope's dazzling dew; 

Her lips, of the carnation dyes, 
Now of the lily's hue, 

* John, XX. 16. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 



249 



He saw were quivering with dismay. 

One word could light those eyes again, 
And banish every grief away ; 

One word bring back the lips' sweet red, 

One word restore the dead, — 
And pleasure substitute for pain ; 

'T was music when he spake it : 
'' MARY ! " 

She turned herself— and from that face 

Of beauty every care was fled ; 

And in its stead 
Was much of grace. 

And something meekly proud. 
As look our skies, when midnight's cloud 

Is chased, and they are overspread 
With morning's early blush, so she, 
The spirit of young Piety — 

Divinely looked, when answering : 
''RABBONI!" 



250 POEMS AND LYEICKS, 



MINISTERING.* 

O Saviour ! wert thou now below, 
'T would be my joy to follow thee ; 

Where thou wouldst lead, I 'd freely go, 
And naught should keep my Lord from me. 

* " If Jesus were still a man of sorrows, not having 
where to lay his head, Piety might spread him a table 
and provide him a home, Affection might weave for 
him the seamless garment, or break the alabaster box 
of ointment of spikenard, very precious, for his burial. 
Poverty herself might wash his feet with her tears, 
and wipe them with her hair. Wealth might find him 
a new sepulchre, hewn in the rock, where never man 
was yet laid. And as a final act of homage, Gratitude 
might bring her spices and ointments, about a hundred 
pounds weight, as the manner was of the Jews to 
bury." — Decapolis. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 251 

I 'd haste to serve thee ; and to wait, 

In humblest duty at thy feet, 
Prefer to thrones of mortal state, 

Or e'en a burning seraph's seat. 

How sweet to minister to thee, 
Who once our earth in pity trod ; 

How blest, a household guest, to see. 
The Man of grief, the very God ! 

Yet though I cannot do as they, 
Who waited on thy earthly need — 

To serve thy heavenly state I may; 
And minister to thee indeed. 

I may bring thee the soul undone, 

That ne'er before had sought thy face; 

I may win home a wretched one. 

Who far has wandered from thy grace. 



252 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Thou wouldst be honored more, by toil 
Of mine to save some erring soul, 

Than if I could the countless spoil 
Of worlds submit to thy control. 

Thou wouldst discern more real love 
In act of mine, the lost to gain — 

Than if such praise as peals above 
I gave thee — could I peal such strain. 

Then let me ne'er lament, that I 

May nothing do for thy dear Name — 

While deathless ones are near to die, 
While sons of God are heirs of shame. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 253 



THE PLAGUE. 

The Plague! the Plague! bring out your 
dead 1 " 

Through all our land the cry 
Rang shrilly forth. " We bring our dead ! " 

Was murmured in reply. 

And still no art could stay the sore, 

By night and day it ran ; 
Till written on our nation's door, 

Was " Lazarett of Man." 

Beyond the pestilence that sweeps 

The Oriental power, 
Where Death, the busy toiler, reaps 

A province in an hour. 



254 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

To touch and taste, and taste and die, 

And fill the maniac's grave, 
Millions essayed, till from the sky, 

Came Abstinence to save. 

Now we are healed ! yet at the pool 

Lie many in their sin ; 
The "moderate" mad, the ruined fool — 

No angel puts them in. 

Ay, angel Temperance never tires, 

But healing wing doth plume, 
Where soaring faith itself expires, 

And hope is in the tomb. 

Shout, Drunkard ! shout ! your chain of steel 

Is sundered, link by link ; 
Shout, Maker ! Vender ! you can feel ; 

Shout, Children ! you may think. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 255 

And Woman, in whose halcyon breast 

The star of hope doth shine, 
Would shout — but tears reveal the rest — 

Lord God, the work is thine. 



256 POEMS AND LYUICKS, 



STAND AND SEE!* 

Stand ye, on whom, in duty's path, 
Innumerous open dangers press ; 

On whom awaits some secret scath, 
Along the howling wilderness; 

Stand still, and trust, and so shall ye 

The fiery Cloud and Pillar see. 

Stand ye, on whose devoted head 
Stern poverty in tempest lowers ; 

Or chained to wasting sickness' bed, 
Or counting melancholy hours, 

Or shedding tears on love's lone grave, 

Stand, and behold an Arm to save. 

• '* And Moses said unto the people, ' Fear ye not; 
stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord, which 
he will show you to-day.' " — Exodus, xiv. 13. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 257 

Stand ye, between whose soul and Heaven 

Is interposed the veil of fear, 
Which shuts out all the glory given 

From God, to bless his children here. 
O wherefore did ye doubt his grace ? 
Look up, and see your Father's face. 

Stand ye, of every name, who wear 
The colors of our common King — 

His soldiers, hemmed, and faint, prepare 
To see him blest deliverance bring. 

Up ! through this R,ed Sea take your way, 

And see salvation-work to-day. 

And stand, my spirit ! — none like thee, 
Methinks, so apt to fear and fall ; 

Rest on His mercy, who can free 
And ransom from the sinner's thrall. 

Who bids His goodness pass before 

The heart that pants to love him more. 
17 



258 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

Yet one more wilderness thou 'It pass, 
But Mercy will conduct thee through, 

Till gladly on the Sea of Glass 
Thou 'It stand, and serve, and worship, too. 

Till then, the victory expect. 

Which crowns the host of God's Elect. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 259 



THE PULPIT STAIRS OF RURUTU.* 

Barbarians of the Southern Sea, 
As the wild waters round them, free, 
Were slaves to folly, fear, and sin ; 
What could such to Religion win 1 

They knelt to idols, carved of stone ; 
To fish and fowl, to block and bone ; 
They entered hell to find a god 
Worse than the rest, and gave him blood. 



* " The last pulpit that I ascended in the Society 
Islands was at Rurutu ; where the rails, connected 
with the pulpit stairs, were formed of warriors' spears." 
— Rev. Mr. Ellis, Missionary to the Society Islands. 



260 POEMS AND LmiCKS, 

The mother dug with fierce delight 
For one, just new to this world's light, 
A grave — and she, a devil, vampt, 
The earth upon the living stampt. 

The son led out his old, sick sire, 
Where waves come in, and waves retire, 
And left him for their rage to sweep 
Into the black, returnless deep. 

All ranks pollution understood ; 

To search its dreadful depths, seemed good ; 

Daughter and sister, father, son, 

To work its evil work were won. 

Warrior on warrior made attack ; 
Death followed fast the arrow's track ; 
And those, whom battle spared, were doomed 
To be in human gorge entombed. 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 261 

By Cruelty and bloody Lust, 

By Drink, inflaming cursed thirst, 

By Sickness, War, and Want were they 

Death and Destruction's easy prey. 

Knew they not God ? — deemed they that Fate 
Had formed them for malignant hate ? 
Their sentient thousands brought to birth. 
Objects of the Creator's mirth ? 

Knew they not God ? — and glowed no hint 
Of Goodness in his sunrise tint ? 
Knew they not God ? — nor saw confessed 
Forbearance in his sunset west? 

Knew they not God ! — They might have seen 
His beauty in the glorious green 
Of those fair islands ; — heard his voice 
In Nature's song, which bade ''Rejoice ! " 



262 POEMS AND LYRICKS, 

And witnessed, in the soil they trod, 
Heaved up in coral wonder — God ! 
And marked his footsteps, bathed in wrath, 
On the volcano's fiery path. 

Yet He, who these bright isles had cast, 
Gems on his robe of waves — The Past, 
The Present, Future, Known, Unknown, 
Who wheels on willing worlds his throne. 

Who, on our virgin world of bliss 

Prest, when He made it, Love's first kiss ; 

And mid his angels' glad acclaim, 

" Good ! " only '' Good ! " pronounced its name. 

Was here unnamed ; — though every hill 
Its Maker knew; each conscious rill, 
Leaping and sparkling, told of Him ; 
Morn's blush, and Evening's twilight dim 



BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 263 

Proclaimed the God; — those valleys rung, 
In music, " God ! " Pacific sung, 
"God!" mountain, mead, rill, rock, replied, 
"God!" "God!" — they heard not, raved and 
died ; — 

Till missionary feet made glad 
Those solitudes, by sin made sad ; 
Till apostolic feet to view 
Was beautiful on Rurutu ! 

Till songs to Christ took place of cries, 
Shrieked o'er the monarch's sacrifice; 
Till tears were seen his robe to gem, 
Outshining his starred diadem. 

Now speaks Redemption's herald — spears 
Flash round him ! Cease, ye busy fears ! 
Festooned are they in comely rails. 
For what God promised never fails. 



264 POEMS AND LYRICKS. 

Mementos they where thousands kneel, 
Of wounds, which only Grace can heal ; 
Reminding of the Spear that slays, 
And brings to life, when man obeys. 

Harmless of blood they fence the place 
Where beams with heaven the teacher's face ; 
Nor, like the Sword o'er Eden burning. 
Hinder one wanderer from returning. 

Barbarians of the Southern Sea, 
Or Northern continents, though free 
As fiends incarnate are to sin — 
Grace, that has won my soul, can win ! 



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